Max

Evan opened his eyes. The light hurt. It had to be midday, maybe early afternoon. He could swear the cars and trucks roaring along the nearby freeway were inside his throbbing head. He groped for his watch but couldn’t find it. Instead, his hand touched the bottle he’d been drinking from the night before. It was empty. Last he remembered it was half-full. Maybe he hadn’t put the cap on tight.

Struggling to prop himself up, his vision blurry, he stared out through the open flaps of his pup tent. Woozy, he could make out birds hopping about on the dried grass of the small clearing in search of something to eat. On a paper plate next to him was the uneaten half sandwich from the mission. He took the dried slice of bread from atop the sandwich, broke it up and pitched the pieces out to the birds as best he could. The birds flocked to them.  

Something moved in the bushes at the edge of the tiny clearing. The birds scattered and flew. A raccoon, maybe? Rubbing his foggy eyes, he waited. A straggly gray cat emerged, making a beeline for the bread, flying from piece to piece as if trying to eat them all at once.

Evan blinked. He had never heard of a cat eating bread, much less seen one do it. The poor thing was starving. Convinced bread wouldn’t do, he took the turkey from his half sandwich and tore it into pieces. Struggling out of his sleeping bag, he leaned forward as best he could, intending to pitch the turkey out to the cat, but his movements startled the wary animal. It dashed into the bushes and disappeared.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he called out, coughing painfully, his scratchy throat dryer than parchment. Despite his dizziness, he crawled out into the clearing on his hands and knees, the meat clutched in one hand. He carefully placed the pieces on a flat stone, then crawled back into his tent and collapsed, exhausted from the exertion.

It wasn’t long before the cat reappeared. Evan watched it hurry to the stone, sniff the meat and wolf it down. It licked the stone and looked at him, calmly washing its face before again disappearing into the bushes.

Evan, beset with raging thirst and a raw throat, needed water so badly he could taste it, but he didn’t have any, only his empty plastic water jug and empty bottles lying around inside his tent. He needed to get to the bodega for another jug of water and some booze to blur his physical distress. While there he could get something for the cat and feed it properly.

He fished his wallet out of his backpack and discovered he had only twenty dollars. It would have to last him until his next social security disability check appeared in his bank account, and that wouldn’t be for several more days. Then, along with more booze, he could get a haircut and a badly needed shave. Scruffy as he was, he did take some pride in his appearance.

#

 “Wow! Rough night, eh?” Alonzo, the owner of the bodega, said to him. When Evan only grunted, Alonzo said, “What’ll it be today? Jim Beam? Absolut?”

“Do you have cat food?”

“Cat food? I’ve heard of people eating dog food, but not cat food. You that bad off?”

“Not for me. A cat. It’s starving. I’m trying to help it.”

“A cat. How’re you gonna take care of a cat in your condition?”

Evan scowled. “It doesn’t need much, just food and some water.”

“You’ll want a couple of bowls to put the food and water in.”

“I don’t have a lot of money.”

Alonzo eyed him, shaking his head. “Alright. Let’s see what we’ve got.”

Evan’s head hurt, even after a shower at the mission with something to eat and water to drink. He watched Alonzo collect the items he requested: two small bowls, a bag of premium dry cat food and a carton of easy-open cans of gourmet cat food—only the best for the cat would do—a couple packages of cat treats and a plastic gallon jug of water. Even when Alonzo threw in the treats as his contribution, the total came dangerously close to twenty dollars.

“Anything from the liquor department?” Alonzo asked.

“I only have a twenty,” Evan said.

Alonzo shook his head. “You know my policy. No credit for boozers.”

“I know.” Evan felt ashamed to be thought of that way. A boozer. He had tried so hard so often to quit, but never managed it for any significant length of time. His addiction had meant the loss of everything important to him: his license to practice medicine, associates, family, friends, health— even his bed at the mission because he couldn’t keep his sobriety.

“I’ll come back when I get my check.”

Alonzo nodded. “I’ll be here.”

#

When Evan got back to his campsite, he discovered the plate he’d left inside the tent was clean, the remains of his sandwich gone. Dusty paw prints on his sleeping bag told him who had done the snitching.

Although still feeling the effects of his hangover, he felt better for his journey to the mission and the bodega. He set things up for the cat just outside the tent as best he could. He filled one of the bowls with cat food and the other with water from the jug. When he was done, he took his shoes off his sore feet and crawled into his sleeping bag. Exhausted from his venture and carrying his weighty purchases back to camp, he was quickly dead to the world.

Sometime later something tickled his cheek. Half asleep, he brushed it away, thinking it a fly. Then he realized it was something far more substantial. Opening one eye, he found himself looking directly at the cat, it’s face just inches away, a paw touching his cheek, whiskers tickling his nose. The cat clambered onto his chest. It wriggled to get comfortable, laying its chin on his throat while kneading his neck with its paws. Its claws were sharp against his skin but didn’t puncture it. The cat purred. Evan didn’t dare move for fear of scaring the cat. Soon, the cat lay still. The purring and kneading stopped. He heard quiet, steady breathing. The cat was asleep. He followed soon after.

Sometime during the night, the cat licked Evan on the chin. He awoke with a start. The cat jumped down. Raising himself on one elbow, he watched the cat retreat to the empty food and water bowls, looking back as if to say, I’m hungry.

Barely awake, Evan struggled out of his sleeping bag and clumsily refilled the two bowls. Despite feeling pleased with himself for attending to the cat, his hands shook, sending bits of dry food flying and water sloshing. He fell back on his sleeping bag, sweating profusely. A serious maintenance drinker, he knew the signs of withdrawal he so hated. Miserable and sick, with no booze and wanting to die, he drank water from his jug and fell into a fitful sleep.

When he awoke, everything was awash in pallid morning light. He felt much better and looked out at the two bowls, again empty. The cat was curled up at the foot of his sleeping bag. As skittish as the cat had been, it seemed to know it had found a friend. Evan for his part felt needed. The thought pleased him. Though just a cat, it offered him a purpose, modest as it was. He felt warm in a way he hadn’t in a long time—longer than he could remember.

Because the cat had taken to him so quickly, Evan suspected it was a lost pet and perhaps even abandoned. A feral cat would have kept its distance. It made the cat all the more special to him. Both had lost family, both were castoffs, thrown out into the world, barely surviving. In all, theirs promised to be a mutually sustaining friendship. Not truly a religious man, Evan prayed. “Thank you, Lord, for sending me this little fellow.” He bit his lip. “I know you’ve sent him for my salvation. I will treasure and take good care of him. Bless you.”

Teary eyed, he stared at this wonderful small animal looking up at him with such trusting eyes. It needed a name. He dubbed it Max. Not Maximillian or anything fancy—just Max. An odd name for a cat, he thought. But then, Max was more than a pet. He was . . . Max.

#

Max took to crawling into Evan’s sleeping bag with him, especially as winter set in, bringing cold nights and even occasional snow. The cat would crawl onto his chest, curling up against his chin, and go to sleep. Each morning, after Max had eaten the food he put out for him, Evan would groom and brush him, keeping his coat shiny and free of burrs and knots. The cat would lick him wherever a patch of bare skin was exposed. Even the top of his head wasn’t spared. To be shown so much affection meant a great deal to a man who’d lived alone and in a stupor for so long . . . He’d forgotten how it felt to be loved. 

Evan was in awe of Max and cared for him selflessly. An affectionate little beast who loved him unconditionally, the cat didn’t care he was a social pariah, shunned by most people. He felt unending joy as Max regained his health. The cat gained both weight and muscle, growing robustly sleek as nature intended. Evan’s sustained sobriety led not only to significant improvement in his own health, but gave him a saner outlook on life, an optimism he had lacked for so many years. And all due to the arrival into his life of a skinny and helpless stray cat. 

Evan regained self-respect and felt good about himself, even buying new clothes. Nothing fancy, but things fresh and clean and neat. He used the laundry at the mission, where he was again offered a bed, but refused because he couldn’t bring Max with him. Going for periodic haircuts, shaves and showers kept him clean and lice-free. He even had money in the bank because he wasn’t spending it recklessly on alcohol. He vowed not to touch booze, afraid he wouldn’t be available if Max needed him. 

Giving no warning, and greatly to Evan’s dismay, Max began disappearing for much of the day, sometimes overnight or even for a few days, leaving Evan frantic with worry. Even though he knew Max was merely being a cat, with rounds to keep and territory to check out, its absences left him anxious and unsettled. When Max returned, he would proudly bring home presents of mice, voles, small birds, even a chipmunk once—all dead, sometimes half eaten. The first time Evan found a dead bird in his sleeping bag, he wanted to scold Max for killing it, but knew the cat was only following his instincts. Each time Max brought him something, Evan dutifully praised the cat before burying his present out of sight in a corner of the small clearing, using a small spade he bought at the bodega especially for the purpose. 

As spring rolled around, and after several nights of itching and waking up with mysterious bites and welts, Evan examined Max and discovered he was infested with fleas. Not sure how to get rid of them, Evan asked Alonzo for advice. Alonzo carried flea powder, but he didn’t carry flea medicine to immunize the cat, a far more permanent solution. Alonzo suggested Evan visit the vet clinic several blocks away. After consulting with the vet, Evan purchased flea medicine, which he was instructed to apply monthly. He thought the little vials terribly expensive, but he had the money. Anything for Max, and his own comfort.

#

By late summer, Max was acting strangely. Evan didn’t notice at first, but after a while, it became obvious that Max was eating less and less. He grew listless and slept for long periods of time inside the tent, disinterested in his surroundings. Evan debated taking him to the vet, but before he could act, Max disappeared and was gone for more than a week.  As each day passed, Evan fell deeper into despair. He knew Max wasn’t well, and berated himself for not taking him to the vet as soon as he knew something was wrong. He struggled not to drink, but after that week had passed without any sign of Max, fearing he was dead, he succumbed despite himself. 

That very night, Max reappeared, finding his friend dead drunk. He licked at Evan’s face. Coming to, Evan tried to hug Max, but the cat cried out in pain. Through watery eyes, he saw Max was hurt, two deep slashes in his side. Angry with himself for his lack of faith, he poured out the remains of the bottle he had purchased, then made himself coffee to keep vigil over the cat until morning, giving him as much comfort as he could while keeping him warm. Evan knew Max desperately needed help he couldn’t give. As soon as the vet clinic opened, groggy from booze and lack of sleep, he wrapped Max in a blanket and carried him there, tears in his eyes, heartsick for fear his little friend might not make it.

“Your cat has been in a fight. Another, bigger cat, probably,” the vet said, as she had looked Max over. “If it had been a raccoon, he wouldn’t have survived.”

In the process of cleaning and closing the wounds, the vet realized there was something equally serious going on with Max. Blood was drawn and urine samples taken, with a round of antibiotics administered. When the vet returned to the examining room, she asked Evan if she could keep Max a day or two to monitor his wounds and run some tests.

“Something’s not right,” she explained. “There are several possibilities. I would recommend radiographs and a sonogram of his abdomen, but we’d need to bring in a specialist for the sonogram, so it would be costly . . . but then we’d know for sure.”

Evan didn’t hesitate. “Do it. I have the money.”

Alone back in his tent, he barely slept that night, worried about Max. He owed his wellbeing to the cat, so it was only right that he be there for his little friend. He didn’t drink, even though he was sorely tempted. Alcohol was anathema to him.

#

When he returned to the clinic, he learned Max had feline leukemia, a condition that explained both his growing listlessness and lack of appetite. He’d undoubtedly come in contact with another cat that had it. There was no telling when.

“That’s not the worst of it,” the vet told him. “I know you love him. That’s obvious. And I don’t know a good way to tell you this, but he has intestinal lymphoma.” She looked at him and bit her lip. “It’s invariably fatal.”

“I’ll lose him?”

“He has two, three months at most. Probably less”

“There’s nothing to be done?”

The vet shook her head. “I’m afraid not. He’s ready to go home with you. We’ll give you medicine to keep him comfortable.”

Evan spent the next several days desperately fighting the urge to drink. He was in despair, unable to sleep, worrying over what was happening to his little friend and if he was in pain. He railed at God for taking Max from him. “What have I done to deserve this? You sent Max to help me and so I could help him! And then— You just . . . take him away. You gave me hope, only to throw me into despair. You’re cruel beyond words. And merciless! You’re not my God!”

Evan devoted himself to Max. He vowed to do anything he could for his little friend, to make him comfortable and show him how much he was loved. Everything was for the cat. Although every trip to the mission to shave, shower and do laundry took time away from Max, Evan had to be presentable for his little friend. Trips to the ATM, to the bodega for supplies or to the vet’s for prescription refills were missions of mercy.

As Max weakened, he ventured less from his bed to eat or pee. Evan fed him tiny bits of food with a baby spoon and gave him water with a syringe. In time, the cat refused food altogether. Evan sat endlessly on his camp stool and held the cat in his lap, watching Max waste away to nothing, knowing the cat would soon leave him forever. He was miserable, his alcoholic brain barely able to cope.

One morning, he woke up to glaring sunlight. He had overslept. His little friend, unmoving, lay snuggled against him. Evan reached down to pet him but even before his fingers touched Max’s fur, he knew his friend was gone. He picked him up—he was stiff as a board—and held him close, squeezing his eyes shut to hold in the tears, realizing Max’s last act had been to snuggle next to him . . . and he had been unaware. He had failed Max when the cat needed him most, and now Max was gone. He hadn’t been there to comfort him. Or say goodbye. The shock of his failure shook him hard. He gently laid Max down, got into clean clothes and left the campsite.

After stopping at the mission to shower and shave, he went to the hardware store next to the vet’s and bought a heavy-duty camping spade, the little one he had being insufficient for his task. He then went to the library and spent several hours trying to find something suitable to say at the memorial service he planned to give his little friend. But he found nothing that felt right. He’d once loved Shakespeare, but even the Bard hadn’t written anything that expressed the enormity of what he was feeling, something appropriate for a cat and what losing Max meant for him. He decided he would say a few simple words from the heart instead. His own words. That would be best anyway.

He bought a paving stone to serve as a grave marker, and a stone mason’s chisel and hammer. At a dry goods store, he bought half a yard of soft cotton fabric, perfect for a shroud. Everyone who helped him at the various stores he stopped by asked why he looked so sad. He told them he had lost a friend. Their sympathy, while appreciated, did little to ease his sorrow.

Back at the tent, Evan carefully groomed his wasted little friend, stroking his fur endlessly, as if unwilling to let him go. Solemnly, he wrapped and sewed Max into his shroud, then dug his grave with the new camping spade. He had wanted to be ready for this moment, to have everything prepared before Max died, but just couldn’t bring himself to do it. He dug the grave as deep as he could, three feet or more, leaving Max to lie in state on the camp cooler he had set up as a bier. When he finished digging, his heart heavy, he lowered his little friend into his grave. His eyes were so blurred with tears he could barely see what he was doing. With Max firmly in place, he found he couldn’t speak. He had no words. In silence, he cast dirt atop the shroud until the grave was full and topped by a mound that would flatten with rain and time. 

He painstakingly chiseled into the paving stone the name Max, and beneath it a question mark for the cat’s date of birth, a dash and then the date of his death. It took him the better part of the day to finish. He then set the gravestone in place and prayed. For that moment, and the next several, he was likely the most reverent man on earth.  He vowed he would stay sober out of respect for Max as it sank into him that Max was gone, never to return. He stared at his little friend’s grave, running his fingers over the small tombstone he had made. With Max gone, it was hard to remember a reason to live. He had no family, no friends, no acquaintances. He had lost everyone. Even Max, who he couldn’t save. Why? Why was he so devoted to the cat . . . and so in awe of it, this little miracle of nature? Why had he taken to it so? It puzzled him that he should be so emotional over an animal. He knew he was but an ordinary, frail human being, full of faults and chased by demons not all of his own making—but still capable of love.

#

When Evan didn’t appear at the bodega for better than a week, Alonzo talked with the neighborhood patrol officer when she stopped in for coffee as she sometimes did.

“I’m worried. This isn’t like him.”

Despite Alonzo’s vague description of its location, the officer located Evan’s campsite, finding him in his pup tent inside his sleeping bag. He had been dead for a week or more, and the stench was horrendous. Around him lay empty liquor bottles. Among his possessions, the officer found a sheet of paper with a message written in a shaky hand, dated, signed, and addressed “To Whom it May Concern.” In it Evan asked that all his earthly possessions go to the needy and any money he had left be given to the local animal rescue shelter in Max’s name.

A year later, Alonzo was moved to visit the campsite in memory of Evan and Max. Weeds and brush had taken it over to the point that Alonzo had difficulty finding Max’s grave with its stone marker. When he did find it, he fell to his knees, cleared away the brush and weeds that covered it and said a quiet prayer.