"You tell Mama when you want to go;" I'd say those words each night to Murray as he snuggled in to one of his two favorite spots: right next to my pillow, or on my chest. Murray was the most delicious kitty, wrapped in grey and white fur with a big tabby smudge by his nose, and marble-green eyes that exhibited depth, wisdom and warmth. He was serene, loving and always at peace; he radiated love.  

In July 2013 Murray was diagnosed with carcinomatosis, a devastating diagnosis. When he became ill, I made a pact with him, that although I did not want to imagine life without him, when he was ready, I would let him go with dignity. On January 30, 2014, I honored that pact. I let him go with no pain, no suffering and his dignity intact. Despite my sorrow and grief, I also felt at peace, and grateful for those last 6 precious months that we shared.

There couldn't have been a more stoic cat than Murray; he accepted the vet visits at ease, he sat patiently for the daily ritual of pills, liquid syringes, injections, supplements and remedies. He was provided with a perpetual rotating menu of food items to assure he was eating non-stop; the raw meat diet topped with Weruva's cat in the kitchen, the all natural freeze dried treats, the honey-maple turkey and an occasional Pringle's Potato Chip. Nothing was outside the realm of possibility for Murray. He even had a few Reiki treatments at the onset of his illness, and I was told at that time there were other forces rallying for him. He was content with his new regimen, and had a good quality of life. And, oh, how ecstatic I was that he reached his 15th birthday on December 1, 2013.

People who got to know Murray during his 15 years with me soon saw how special he was. He was charming, sweet, always at ease, never irritated by anything; he never scratched, never went to bite, never even hissed at my other cats or dogs. He allowed nail trims, teeth brushing, baths, and especially a good brushing with joy. Murray's mannerisms were just as sweet as his good manners. In his earlier years, he would play, calling out a cute trill and chirp as he rappelled off the side of a wall. We called it the "devil walk," but it was really just charming. He was no devil, but an angel.

Murray was a social and engaging cat who craved constant human and animal companionship, and over the years became the patriarch of a growing tribe: Felix his closest kitty partner for 14 years, Rosie, the diva cat for 13; then came the dogs, Lou and Flora, but nothing could rattle his feline charm. Murray was accepting and loving of everyone.  And, as I always said, if you could clone temperament this would be it.

I will always remember the day I adopted Murray, or he chose me, as they often do. He came to the front of the cage and put his paw out, and I knew he was meant to be my special kitty boy. In the socialization room he lived up to my expectations--so loving and engaging--take me, take me! I was so sad I couldn't bring him home that day, since he had not yet been neutered. I called the shelter like a nervous mother the day he had his operation, just to make certain he was okay. I had already bonded with him before I even got him home.

His last day with me was as special as his first. That morning he managed to get from the living room to my office area, a long way for a cat who had lost the strength and mobility to get to a litter box or water bowl. His decline happened very quickly, almost overnight, but he garnered the strength to jump up on my office chair to cuddle next to me. And I gave him some honey maple turkey, which he always relished, and that made us both very happy.

The final gift I was able to give Murray was letting him go when he was ready. I believe that letting them go with dignity and peace is the most gracious, humbling and humane gift anyone can give to their cherished pet. But, remember, they remain in our hearts forever. I set Murray free when he needed it the most, and like the angel he was and always will be, he has a permanent place in my heart.