I wasn't planning on writing this type of article this week, but after my cat's passing, I feel that his story needs to be told. Rescue animals can be blessings.
I met Mango the cat on a chilly night in September of 2016. He wasn't Mango then, of course; his silly name came later. He was just an orange stray that showed up in the front yard of our country home, as strays tend to do.
When I came out in my slippers to feed him, he fled, but as I called out to him, he never stopped meowing. It was like he was still trying to have a conversation while terrified out of his mind. I remember wanting to nickname him Hamlet, because all those meows sounded so sad.
When he returned the next night, my mom trapped him. Not trapped, per se, but she closed the garage door behind him when he took refuge there, and then we had a fifth cat on our hands. We didn't make plans to keep him, but my mother (as much as she will deny it) is a softie, and she hung out with him and fed him every night. So his presence just sort of became accepted. She's the one who named him Mango.
Mango wouldn't let any of us touch him for weeks, even with the food offerings. He was never aggressive, but we definitely had to do the shuffling movement to get close to him. Nine times out of ten he panicked and hid in some stack of junk in the garage, but that one time out of ten he might sniff you, or headbutt your hand with his broad forehead if you were lucky. It was his way of showing acceptance.
In the future, those headbutts would not be in short supply.
Taking a nap with my little brother William.
He eventually left the garage, discovered the barn, and decided that it was his new home. Every morning that summer when I did barn chores, Mango was there, always just a couple meters away, even as I led horses out. He body-slammed my leg if I didn't pet him quickly enough, and it was a ritual that, before he ate, he had to headbutt my hand. I could drop the food in his bowl, and if I didn't do our little head-fist-bump, he turned and pointedly stared at me until I gave in.
Mango learned to love being petted -- maybe a little too much.
Mango also loved music; that, or he loved that people were always associated with music. The few times he stayed in the house with us -- when he was sick or it was too cold -- he curled up at my feet when I practiced ukulele. Many times that summer, when I played outside, he ran out of the barn to find me once he heard strumming. Then he flopped into the grass at my side and purred.
He was the friendliest cat I ever met. Once, when I was trying to console a lost kitten in the middle of the night, Mango ran out of the weeds with his tail sticking straight up in the air -- cat talk for "hey, I'm being friendly!". The kitten, freaked out at having a strange tomcat run at him, lost his cool and attacked. Mango only backed out of range and hung out with me until the kitten was taken care of.
Mango wasn't purebred or socialized from birth to be a certain way. He was just a plain orange cat in need that we gave a home to, and he repaid us in the best way he could. I'm not saying that rescue or stray animals are inherently better than buying from a breeder (Lord knows Mango was terrible at using the litter-box) but there is something to be said about giving a home and love to an animal who hasn't experienced it before.
He passed away of cancer on Tuesday. His two short, headbutt-filled years with us are a testament to what just a little love and care can do for an animal.
