Farewell Sweet Micka

Unexpectedly and devastatingly, on the evening of February 10, 2014, we lost our beloved Mickelson . . . a.k.a. Micka. . . a.k.a. Micka-Muffin. . . a.k.a. Muffin-Top-Bottom-And –Sides. His mama and daddy, and his BFF Harley, are heartbroken.

Mickelson was born in April of 2002 (we weren’t sure of the date, so we just gave him his daddy’s birthday—April 18th). We don’t know what Micka’s life entailed during his first 7 or so weeks, but we do know that he landed at the Humane Society Silicon Valley, and into the lap of Jeri Seiden (the amazing rescue coordinator there), who then called Lisa to “come get this kitten before I take him home! You have WAY fewer than me!!” When Lisa picked up Micka, she understood the directive. He was a little fluff ball of a Maine coon kitten with a perfect M on his forehead and a perfect raccoon tail—cuter than words could describe. Lisa packed him up and took him home and set him up in a small bathroom where he would feel safe. . .

Except Micka wanted nothing to do with the small bathroom. He wanted to be where the big cats were. So after receiving a clean bill of health, Micka left the bathroom and introduced himself to Mitty, Ping and Harley. Usually, when kittens are introduced to big cats, there is some hissing and general unhappiness that the natural order of the residence has been disturbed. This was not the case with Micka. Within 24 hours of his introduction to the pack, his “foster” mama had photos of him snuggled up with and being groomed by every one of the resident Lotti cats. Even Gatsby the dog liked Micka from the get-go . . .

But Mick was not supposed to be a Lotti cat. He was meant to be a Lotti foster. First, he needed a name. George noted with a smile that this kitten loved two things as much as his foster brothers: water (any running faucet or shower made HIM come running) and dirt (upon this kitten’s arrival, the resident plants somehow learned to spew dirt all over the carpets whenever we left the house). And ironically, golfer Phil Mickelson seemed to love playing in the water and dirt (sand) as much as our foster kitten). The “M” that graced his little kitten forehead sealed the deal: Mickelson it was. Now he was ready for adoption fairs. . . except that his foster daddy thought he could use an extra week of snuggling at the Lotti house. And then one more week. . . and one more week. Finally, Lisa looked at George and asked the question-- will Mick EVER be ready for a fair? George’s answer? “Probably not.” And with that, Mickelson Foster became Mickelson Lotti.

In hindsight, making Micka part of our family should not have even been a question. Mitty and Ping were incredibly bonded, and Harley was a rambunctious third wheel. Once Mick came into the house, Harley found his place in our family. The two of them spent Micka’s kittenhood racing all over the house, chasing the dog, being chased by the dog, chasing each other, grooming each other and finally snuggling up together to sleep. For over 11 years, it was a given that, wherever you found Harley snoozing, Mick would be right beside him. And Mick filled another void in our family (hard to imagine a void with three cats and a dog already, but it was true): Mitty was the elder statesman who took care of everyone (a total oldest child). Ping was a spoiled sassy devil of a daddy’s boy who, like many second children, made his place by being 180 degrees away in personality from his older sib. Harley was a brute, athlete, and fragile flower all in one who needed lots of zen to be ok. Gatsby was possessive and high maintenance. And Mick was the embodiment of unconditional love—the Dalai Lama of cats. His purr and his presence affirmed, grounded, calmed and healed us all as we were: diverse, needy and at times, unworthy.

We just alluded to Micka’s purr. . . no sound on this planet was quite like Micka’s purr. To be the recipient of a snuggle accompanied by THAT purr was magical. His purr was LOUD—so loud that his mama made it her ringtone and had no issue hearing it at normal volume. But it wasn’t just loud. It was rhythmic. It was the most calming music on the most trying of days. And Mick offered it openly—nothing was required from us. If we were anywhere in his vicinity, he would gently ease over, press his body next to ours, look deeply into our eyes and turn it on. All seemed right with the world in those moments. Every single night and every single morning for the past (nearly twelve) years, we fell asleep and awoke to that purr. Mick would carefully crawl over mama and stretch out so he could “pin” both his mama and his daddy and turn up the volume (we would giggle and whisper what we knew he was thinking: “You don’t see me . . . you don’t see me . . .nothing to be seen here”. . . PLOP. PURRRRRR). Some of our most cherished memories with Mick are so simple and so profound at the same time. He was the baby who kept us present: as Mitty took care of Ping and Ping demanded treats and Harley wanted to play, Mick just wanted to be. And purr. And take in love-laden moments and bask in their joy, eyes half closed, sweet paws making muffins. How we will miss the excuse to follow his lead. . .

We mentioned that Micka loved to be ON his people. What we didn’t mention was that Micka, in his glory days, weighed close to 20 pounds. Mick loved food a bit more than a cat should. Because of that, he developed diabetes when he was nine and needed insulin shots twice daily (which he endured with purrs and patience). We tried everything to get him to exercise—tall cat trees, laser pointers, cat dancers. . . Even Harley tried almost daily to engage him in a good wrestling match, but Micka would “MROW” in protest (our translation: “Stop it, Boo!! I’m a PACIFIST!!”). On good days, he’d give us a single burst of energy before returning to lounging and purring. We would joke that Mick had “burned a calorie” and give him a standing ovation. We took photos of him in his favorite relaxed position—on his back, BIG belly up, all four paws in the air, staring at the ceiling contentedly . . . and then we would RRRRUB his belly (which, unlike most cats, he loved). The truth was that Micka just wasn’t interested in being svelte. When his mama called him “Micka-Muffin-Top-Bottom-And-Sides”, he would actually knead and purr louder. He was the happiest of cats—just the way he was.

Maine coon cats are known to love water, but Mick took this to an extreme. He was OBSESSED with showering. The morning routine was that daddy would shower, then Mick would shower (yes-the shower was turned on low for him). He would stand under the stream, catch it with his paws, and wash himself all over. He would then emerge from the shower, soaking wet, and continue his grooming regimen until mama finished showering. . . at which point he would come back for one more turn under the stream. It was his absolute passion to be in water. And even though we watched this routine pretty much every day for several years, it never got old. It would be 5:30 a.m. –and we’d be giggling hysterically as this 20 pound, soaked cat waddled out of the shower to hunker down on his personal towel and regally dry his face with his paws.

As many of you know, the year began with us learning that our eldest feline, Ping, had terminal cancer. But Ping surprised us all and is currently doing well. As we had been so focused on Ping, we thought we’d schlep Mick in and see how he was doing. Bloodwork showed that he no longer needed insulin (which we were very excited about)—and all else looked pretty ok. As he adjusted to having more normal blood sugar, Mick slowed down eating-wise (pretty normal), but he continued to eat treats and some of his favorite kibble, shower, snuggle and purr. On Saturday, we left a freshly showered cat to spend a couple of days in Tahoe with Mac, the pup. On Sunday, he was fine. And on Monday, he crashed. He was rushed to Adobe where, as we frantically drove back, his amazing auntie vet and the best damn techs in the world did everything and then some to try to save him. Emergency surgery revealed a pancreas that was terribly abnormal (ironically, his blood sugar was ok, so lack of insulin had nothing to do with any of this). We arrived at Adobe with Mick just coming out of surgery, which he survived. . . but just as his mama touched him for the first time post-op, Mick took his last breath. Our sweetest feline soul – all love and forgiveness and light—was gone.

We still don’t and may never have all the answers as to why this happened. But the lessons . . . those will remain with us for as long as we are here. Love unconditionally. Live big. Enjoy a belly rub from those you love. Purr—LOUDLY. Be in the moment because really, nothing else is as beautiful and perfect as a morning in bed with coffee and a twenty pound vibrating cat looking lovingly into your eyes and kneading gently on your tummy. Take a shower or two every day. Don’t waste one ounce of energy not loving yourself, or your family, or your life, as they are. Our sweet Micka—we are much, MUCH better people because of you. And we will miss you and love you always.