Chain of Custody

I almost always had a pet as a kid, either a dog or a cat or both. Then 40 years went by without any pets in the house. Now, for the past 20 years, my wife and I have shared space with cats and a dog, and they’ve left their indelible mark on us both.

Currently, we have one pet, a cat named Muffin. Sounds like a sweet, little delicate thing, Muffin, huh? Well, she is adorable. But she’s a scamp. So, why Muffin? It starts with an “M,” a kind of tradition that just happened. There's another reason, too, that I'll get to later.

There’s a good rescue story about Muffin. But before I tell it, let’s talk about her lineage – her spiritual lineage.

In April 2000, while working as a welder on a ranch in Northeastern Oklahoma, the fence riders found a litter of kittens abandoned in a pasture. The newborn kittens were squealing, having gone without milk way too long to their liking. The fence riders took the kittens to the barn. Within a couple of days, they were gaining weight and scampering around their new home in a horse stall.

One kitty, in particular, caught my eye. Isn't it often that way? I called her Marbel because of her coloring. I spelled it differently because she was different, and she didn't complain. Marbel was special. Even when the kittens were only a week or so old, Marbel showed herself as the litter's most affectionate and caring. Just how caring would become apparent a few months later.

During an unusual cold spell, the barn caught fire from a space heater left on to keep the kittens warm. Half of the barn was destroyed. One kitten died in the fire, and another was severely burned. The rest escaped unscathed, including Marbel. We moved the litter to the welding shed and set up a box for them behind the potbelly stove.

The kittens, crying for food and attention, huddled together on an old horse blanket. While the other kittens paid little attention to their injured sibling, Marbel became Florence Nightingale. When she wasn’t attending to her sister’s wounds, she stayed curled up next to her and kept a close eye on her.

I was touched. Marbel’s caring and attention for her sister seemed unique, especially since the other siblings were detached. I should have guessed that about her, though. From the beginning, whenever I held her, she worked her way up my chest to get just under my chin. There she’d nuzzle her forehead against my neck and beneath my chin, pushing hard like she couldn’t get close enough. It was a behavior she retained all her life.

When I moved to Tulsa a few months later to take care of my aging parents, I, of course, took Marbel with me. That was early 2001. We became inseparable over the next 17 years. In the interim, I met my future wife. Together, we lived in three homes in Tulsa and Sand Springs and a couple in Denver before returning to Oklahoma. Marbel passed in December 2018.

When my wife Debbie and I married, she had a white lab named Mandi. Marbel had never been around a dog. She seemed anxious at first about living arrangements in the condo at Cambridge Square we bought in Tulsa. She and Mandi seemed to agree that ignoring each other’s existence was foundational. Marbel liked staying outside most of the day, coming in during the evening, and staying primarily on her spot on the sofa. Marbel displayed so much caring for her sister as a kitten back on the ranch that I thought she would cozy up to people in the same way. Not so. She was always a one-person cat. She was truly mine.

Correction. I was hers. When I first moved to Tulsa, a female friend came to visit, and she and Marbel sort of clashed. My friend dubbed Marbel “Devil Cat” because of the look Marbel gave her whenever she came close to me. Debbie experienced this, too. But she and Marbel developed a live-and-let-live arrangement. Marbel was civil; Debbie was patient and loving, and kind to Marbel.

I think Debbie wanted a kitten of her own. A woman at Debbie’s work had kittens she brought into the office hoping to home and one, in particular, stole Debbie’s heart. She named the kitty Misha. It met all of Debbie’s criteria for a rescue – a runt, friendly to a fault, reckless, and adorable. Misha was a misnomer, though.

“What do you think about changing her name?” Debbie asked me one morning.

“Do you have one in mind?” I asked

“Murphy. I think she's a Murphy." I wasn't sure what that meant, exactly, but I liked it.

We assigned a spot at the bottom of the stairs for Mandi’s water and food bowls. The front entry had a short hallway that passed the kitchen and dining area and opened into the living room. Mandi’s “spot” wasn’t visible from the front door but was from the living room. We had hardwood floors. One day as soon as I came in the front door, I saw a white ball go scooting by out of Mandi’s spot into the living room. Murphy had apparently taken liberties with the dry food Debbie had just set out for Mandi. This was great fun for Murphy. She immediately got up and started back to go again. Mandi was having none of it and let loose a no-nonsense bark/growl. Murphy never tried to eat Mandi’s food again.

Marbel never warmed up to Murphy, who loved Marbel. It was a friendship made in hell – for Marbel. Murphy thought they were BFF.

Marbel went from being an indoor/outdoor cat to mostly an outdoor cat because of Murphy. I trusted her outside, but if I wanted her in, I could jingle my keys out the door, and in 10 minutes or so, she’d show up.

When I visited my parents, I always took Marbel with me, and often I’d let her go out to explore the apartment grounds. Mom worried about Marbel being outside, though. After just a few minutes, Mom would ask me to get Marbel in, so I’d stick my arm out the patio door and jingled my keys.

Almost immediately, Mom said, “That didn’t work.”

“Mom. Give her a break. Her legs are only this long,” I said, holding my hands 6-inches apart like showing the one that got away. Sure enough, in no time, we’d hear this tiny meow and see that cute little face peering at us through the patio door.

In contrast, Murphy was strictly an indoor cat. She was assigned that status after getting away from me and staying out all night. Unlike Marbel, Murphy didn’t respond to keys rattling or calling. That just made her more oblivious. I tried to approach her to no avail. I went back inside, thinking she’d come back soon. When she was still gone at dusk, I feared she might be gone forever.

Debbie and I had a terrible night’s sleep worrying about Murphy. When morning came, I immediately went to the front door and called “Murphy” repeatedly. Suddenly, I saw her little white, brown, and black body trotting across the street.

She came right to me like it was no big deal. I picked her up and held her face level with mine. “You little shit,” I said. “You will never go outside again.” She was unfazed, but she never went out again.

In September 2008, the Dow Industrials took a 504.48-point nosedive. The economic downturn continued to worsen, spear-headed by Lehman Brothers’ bankruptcy, and I was laid off as a paralegal. In late 2009, I was offered and accepted a job in Colorado. As luck would have it, Debbie and I had just bought a house the year before. We really thought it would be our retirement home. We had made improvements to the property. With our menagerie of two cats and a dog, it felt like home. We decided to sell and move to Colorado. We both had relatives there, so it seemed like the thing to do.

Debbie took college courses, so we decided she would remain in Oklahoma, finish her semester, spruce up the house to sell, and transfer to Regis in Denver. I moved in with Debbie’s sister and brother-in-law and their family in Colorado Springs, where I worked as a paralegal at a law firm. It was intended to be temporary. Undoubtedly, the house would sell quickly, and Debbie and the “kids” would join me in beautiful Colorado.

Things took longer than we expected. Even with the improvements, the house didn't move. We installed a new HVAC system and new double-paned windows. We had the outside painted, and I put up wood shake siding on the porch and over the garage. While I was in Colorado, Debbie did an absolutely fantastic job with the garden in front.

The housing market in Oklahoma was worse than dismal. It took over a year to sell our place – a year of separation. During that year, I drove back to Oklahoma an average of every two weeks for the weekend. I didn’t mind the drive. It was long but not all that taxing.

Debbie and I decided we couldn’t stay separated. Two factors made up our minds. First, we enjoyed each other too much to stay apart. Second, we married relatively late in life; we were both over 50. There were no children, just our fur babies, Mandi, Marbel, and Murphy. Then, we lost one.

Mandi was a Labrador Retriever. She had hip dysplasia, which is hereditary, and was older. It was getting more difficult for her to get around. Debbie agonized over what to do. She struggled with the idea of putting her beloved Mandi to sleep, though. But she definitely didn’t want to come home from work one day and find Mandi dead. The thought of Mandi being alone during the last minutes of her life was too painful for Debbie. After much praying, phone conversations with me, and discussions with the vet, Debbie decided it was time.

Debbie went through that sad, emotional affair alone, after which I pledged, we’d never be separated like that again. We would go through all our life events – good and bad – together.

I rented and watched Marley & Me. I wanted to experience at least some of the emotions Debbie had to endure, no matter how vicariously. If you have never seen this film, it's about a man and his dog. What made the film poignant for me was how much Marley and Mandi looked alike.

In the film, Marley develops a painful condition, and it's decided to euthanize him. There is a scene near the end where John (Owen Wilson) is with Marley saying goodbye. He tells Marley how much he was loved. Marley had always been such a scamp, a kind of stumble-bum that couldn't do anything right. John teased Marley calling him "a real pain" and the "worse dog ever." Now, at the vets, John whispers, "Don't you believe it... You're a great dog, Marley." If anyone cannot cry during this scene, well, they have never had that chain attached to their heart.

Even though the house hadn’t yet sold, we decided Debbie needed to come to Denver. So, I went back to Oklahoma to help pack. While going through things in the bedroom, I heard a strange sound. I thought Marbel and Murphy were at it again. (Murphy loved to hide behind a door and tackle Marbel when she went by.) In the living room, I saw Marbel standing over Murphy, sniffing her. Then she stiffened, her hair stood out, and she pulled her head back before running out of the room. I bent down and touched Murphy. She was dead.

It was the weekend. We took Murphy to a vet and handed her over to be cremated. We had no idea what happened to Murphy. We've speculated. Perhaps she had a congenital defect of some kind. Or, maybe she had a stroke or a heart attack. Whatever it was, it happened instantly. She loved us and showed it every day. That’s the thing about pets. They will love you unconditionally and always. You are everything to them.

Murphy was so special to us. Of course, people always think their pets are unique, and they should consider that. There is a chain connecting each tiny spirit with the people who love them. It’s a chain of custody that’s never forgotten, never broken. I’ve known people who lost a pet they adored who said they would never get another pet. It was just too painful losing them. But in time, another little furry creature wins their hearts, and that chain of custody is re-established just as if it was never broken. Because it wasn’t.

We left the vet's, finished packing, and the next day the three of us – Debbie, Marbel, and me – headed for Denver. A few months later, the house finally sold.

Marbel lived with us in five different homes. She was a completely different personality from Murphy and Mandi. She could be sullen, but she could also be kitty-like and tear through the house chasing things we couldn’t see, hiding, and escaping. She was a calico, small but fierce. Until we moved back to Oklahoma, Marbel spent most of her days outside. Even in Denver, we let her roam during the day. Many wild animals stalked the grounds of the Breakers, so I always jingled my keys before dark. We lived in a townhouse in east Denver near Lowry Air Force Base. Great view of the mountains. Foxes and coyotes often trotted by on the sidewalk past our front door. At night, you could hear the screaming of rabbits that became prey for nature’s night stalkers. Not a few pets left out overnight didn’t make it back home.

Marbel was my first rescue. She lived with us for over 18 and a half years. I never had a pet so easy to care for. She refused to eat fancy food, hated the vet, had to go outside every day. She was a little stalker and loved to roam free but didn’t complain about staying at home when we took off for a weekend. I think she liked having her “me time.”

Marbel warmed to Debbie while we were still living at the condo in Cambridge Square in Tulsa. They had an enmity thing going on at first. Debbie was always good with animals, though, and she eventually won Marbel over – with a bit of help from drunk me.

I came home from work one day and found only Marbel, Murphy, and Mandi there. For some reason, I no longer remember, we were administering oral medication to the cats with an eyedropper. Murphy loved the stuff and lapped it up. Marbel was an anti-vaxxer through and through. I got a beer from the fridge, plopped onto the sofa, and turned on the TV. After another beer, I decided it was an excellent time to medicate the cats.

Murphy volunteered to go first. She practically sucked the stuff out of the dropper. As Murphy jumped down, licking her chops, Marbel and I locked eyes. I smiled. She slow winked and turned her head. I picked her up and held her like a baby as I pinched the dropper in the medicine bottle to fill the dropper. Marbel stared at me and struggled. I squeezed her comfortably closer and wiggled the pipette into her mouth. Marbel bolted, medicine running down her chin and onto my pants. Three Beers (my new Indian name) was determined to administer that damn medicine.

What was I thinking? No medicine was this important. I laid on my back and looked sideways at Marbel.

“I’m sorry, Marbel.” She let loose a long, low yowl. “Come out. I promise no medicine.” She whimpered a definite no.

Debbie found me on the couch watching TV when she got home from work. She sat on the sofa and stroked Mandi’s face.

“Where’s Marbel?” I told her. Everything. She frowned, shook her head, and headed upstairs. “Hope you left me a beer?”

A few minutes later, she descended the stairs, Marbel tucked in her arms. Talk about a couple of wicked female stares. After that, they became close allies. I, on the other hand, had to prove I could be trusted. Animals are exceedingly forgiving. But I think they remember slights. She finally let me pick her up, and all was forgiven.

We moved back to Oklahoma from Denver in 2016. Marbel passed at the end of 2018. She’s gotten frail so quickly, it seemed. A mobile vet came to the house to examine her. Marbel had renal failure. We took a couple of days to see how Marbel progressed, but really just to spend time with her knowing what was coming. The next day in our living room, we said goodbye.

There are many people – well-meaning people – who say you can replace one pet with another. That isn’t my experience. Animals you know can’t be substituted any more than people you know can be replaced. Debbie and I knew we’d have another kitten one day. It would just take time.

Sheba wasn’t that cat, but she helped us see the time was coming for an animal addition to our household. Sheba was a feral cat that roamed the neighborhood and hung around our back door. She was pregnant the first time we saw her. She had that litter and went back to coming around for food and water. Eventually, we were able to pet her.

Sheba quickly got with litter again. She brought her kittens around the back of the house once. Then we didn’t see her again.

One day when returning from the store, I stopped in the driveway and heard meowing. It came from the yard of the abandoned house next door. I looked and saw three little faces peeking around the wall of the dilapidated garage. I doubted I could approach them but walked over anyway. Two greys immediately backed up and scampered back around the corner. One stood her ground. I bent down, and she let me pet her. I picked her up, leaned over the fence, and saw Sheba lying on the ground near the broken siding where she’d apparently had her kittens. She was dead.

I entered the yard and examined Sheba. There were no wounds, which made me wonder if she hadn’t been poisoned. The two kittens that had retreated from me came out from the garage. I picked them up, too, and took them home. I then returned to Sheba and buried her in the country west of town.

The kittens were eating and playing in the bathroom when Debbie arrived home from work. We decided the best thing to do was to find homes for them as soon as possible. I posted a picture on a neighborhood site and surprisingly got a call within minutes. A lady said she’d had a cat that died, and she was looking for one for her son. We invited her and her son to come over, thinking they would only want one.

As soon as the lady and her son saw Sheba’s kittens, they were hooked. The mother wanted two of them and was holding the two grays. Her son wanted the other one, the one with white one her, the brave one.

Some things are just meant to be. The mother settled on the two grays and apologized for taking all three.

“That’s fine,” I said. Debbie was holding Muffin. “I think we may keep this one.”

I started this story with a promise to explain why we chose the name Muffin. It does start with an “M,” and all of our pets’ names began with “M” -- Mandi, Marbel, Murphy, Muffin – an alliteration of fur.

Another reason is that Muffin – whom we call Muffy because it comes out sounding like Murphy – has a personality so similar to Murphy’s it’s uncanny. Murphy was mischievous, fearless, cantankerous when she didn’t get her way but was loving and snuggly.

Muffy is the same. Murphy, along with Mandi and Marbel, forged that chain of custody of the hearts of an older couple. Our memories are thoroughly interwoven with thoughts and pictures of the four animals who ended up rescuing – us.