She was not a young cat by any means. She was twelve years old and was well loved (and utterly spoiled) her entire life.
We got her from my sister to replace my mother's cat who had passed the previous year. When she arrived, her name was Butterscotch. My mother and I share a similar belief when it comes to naming your pets: don't name them somethng you wouldn't name your children. As she was supposed to be my mother's cat, she got the honor of renaming. She chose Maggie Mae, after the Rod Stewart song.
We intended her to be my mother's cat, but she apparently had other ideas. She was the family pet. Even my dad liked her, and he hated cats.
She was affectionate towards all members of the family, but she made no illusions: I was number one in her book. If she were in somebody else's lap, and I walked in, she would jump down and into mine. When i would come home from work, i would see her in the window, only to be greeted by her at the door. She would be sitting there with that aloof yet affectionate look on her face that only a cat can do. As if to say "Welcome home. Now pet me."
When I would be at my desk getting my nightly MMO fix, she would be laying on the floor beside my chair. When I would be in my room painting minis, she would be laying on the corner of my bed. She always made it a point to be within arm's reach. I'd reach over and just idly scratch behind her ears or under her chin, and she would feign indignance at me for having the temerity to DARE interrupt her nap, only to start purring loudly (seriously, you could hear her purr in the next room sometimes) and move her head around to get my scratching exactly where SHE wanted it. It would continue like this for a few minutes, then I would go back to whatever it is I was doing, and she would lay back down to doze.
She would never play with any toys i bought her, but would entertain herself for hours with any kind of box left unattended for more than thirty seconds. And catnip. Dear god, she loved catnip. I'd be at my desk and she would be underfoot, staring expectantly at the vial of catnip I kept there. I'd give her a toot, and she'd roll around in it happily. Then when finished, she'd do what most stoners do: snacks and a nap. I'd find her sprawled out on the floor somewhere, snoring away contently.
She would always be there when i needed her. She provided solace for me when my father passed away, was a friendly ear when I was at my worst depressive moods, and was generally a more loyal friend and companion than half the people I've known in my life.
Rest in peace, Maggie Mae. You're greatly missed.
