For Moneypenny
Some time in early 2019, in a world not yet touched by all the terrible and wonderful things to come, I was working at a publisher in midtown Manhattan. Our company rented office space from the Horticultural Society of New York, a very nice group of green folks, and one day, one of the higher-ups over there came to tell us that they were partnering with a cat rescue to foster some cats.
I don’t remember exactly when she came or if she was the very first, but she was the only one that mattered. Because one day, a little tuxedo cat, just about a year old, who they were calling Pepperjackie (the world’s stupidest name, I know), came into the office space, and then promptly went missing. Of course, my friend/coworker Sabrina and I, both avid cat people, took it on as our mission to find her. We scoured the entire floor, until we finally ended up in the Hort’s back storage room. I noticed some movement, maybe a shifting cardboard box, and scooped up the little culprit. Her ears were huge for her tiny face and body. She had the best green-yellow eyes. She was so soft.
Sabrina said something like, “Uh oh.”
And a month or so later, I picked her up from the Hort on a Saturday, accompanied by a woman from the cat rescue, and brought her back to Queens. Pepperjackie was dead——long live Moneypenny.
For me, there is life before Penny and after. I know probably everyone who’s had a pet feels that way. I even feel that way about my childhood cats, Kismet and Gilgo. But Penny was different for me, special. She came into my life at just the right time, about seven or eight months after I both lost my gran and moved into my apartment. Though Kismet lived a good, long life, and had passed only two years before, Penny was my first cat as a real adult, where I was living in my own place and making all the decisions for her: what to feed her; what litter box to buy; what vet and pet sitter to engage when necessary; yes, she absolutely needs another toy, just buy it with your meager publishing salary!! She made my apartment a home, bringing in life and silliness and so, so much joy and love.
About a year after I adopted Moneypenny, after her first summer with me and her first Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year’s, New York City went into lockdown for something called . . . coronavirus? I am confident Penny is the only reason I’m reasonably well-adjusted today. Yes, therapy and medication have helped tremendously since then, but I didn’t have any of those things in the earliest days of the pandemic. All I had was Penny. She made sure I got up to feed her; she sat at the balcony door when I read or worked outside to get my daily dose of fresh air. She slept on the end of my bed or in her (at the time) favorite Chewy box with a blanket I bought on a whim in Montauk however many years ago. She was integral to my life from the very first moment, but she, quite literally, kept me alive in those days.
We weathered so much together. She watched me change jobs twice (and take a leap of faith in leaving my job just this past December), start an MFA, finish writing a book (or a few, but the others don’t really count——yet). She was my editorial assistant on all projects, for work, school, and personal fulfillment. She checked my homework and my emails. She napped through countless hours of boring meetings. She learned what stairs were at my parents’ house, during holidays and vacations, and my mom and dad fell in love with her too. She sat by and let me rub her belly as I cried or laughed or screamed in therapy. I was so lucky to find her when I did, so lucky just to know her, so lucky to get to love her and take care of her.
Moneypenny was sweet, silly, curious (or nosy, depending who you ask), beautiful, brave, and so smart. She loved to play Neighborhood Watch, keeping an eye on the goings-on down on the street from her perch on the living room and bedroom windowsills. She wanted to fight the streetsweeper that rumbled by on Thursdays and Fridays, running around growling every week when it went by. Her favorite pastime was batting my favorite pens off tables and under the couch, where they will live until I move out of my apartment. She hated going in my car, though for the first five years she was with me, the car only meant going to my parents’ for a holiday or vacation, where she would be plied with cream cheese and cold-cut ham and allowed to break every and any rule her little heart desired. And she always knew when she was getting put in the damn carrier, and she knew just where to hide so I couldn’t get her into it without significant delay. She had a strong heart, according to one of the many vets who met her over the last two months; she was also described as a sweetheart, an angel, a cutie.
She was all this, and I hope she knew it. I think she did.
Last Sunday, January 12, 2025, I took Penny to an urgent care because I was worried about a new symptom that had arisen in the wake of a long, long stretch of bad luck: one terrible and absolutely fucking useless vet visit, a major surgery, a mystery limp, a mass around her right hip for which I had a scheduled follow-up at her usual vet that coming Friday. But the first vet on Sunday recommended I take her to an emergency hospital to see a specialist, since her case was, as the doctor described, “complex.” At the emergency vet, I was told they’d like to hospitalize her, to monitor her while awaiting results of a biopsy of the mass. And then a little while later, the vet there came in and told me that Penny had nodules in her lungs, meaning she likely had an incredibly aggressive kind of cancer; the prognosis was one to three months, even if I pursued chemo.
When you adopt a pet, you’re signing on for the good and the bad. You get all the unconditional love in the world, someone to eat meals with and read books with, someone to stare judgmentally at you and purr the night away. You get to play with them, pet them, love them. But since they can’t make decisions for themselves, since they often hide their discomfort or pain, you have to be the one to take care of them: endless vet visits, if you can manage (and afford) it; dispensing medications they hate; worrying, waiting, crying. And one day, you probably have to make a decision that is right, but will feel cruel and terrible.
Moneypenny died in my arms on Sunday, January 12, 2025. I had plenty of time beforehand to tell her over and over again how much I loved her, to thank her for everything she had been and done for me, to tell her how strong and brave she was. To call her Penny Pie, Silly Goose, Cutie Patootie (and never, never again Pepperjackie).
I miss her so fucking much. It feels like there’s a hole where my heart should be, but also like there are a million, a billion, shattered pieces rattling around in my chest. I am full of second guesses and guilt and doubts, and the selfish part of me wishes I had kept her here for another month. No amount of time would’ve been enough, but what I wouldn’t give to rub her belly, scratch behind her ears, share a roast beef sandwich, just one more time.
I’m not sure what I believe about the universe and the afterlife, and, no offense to anyone who finds it comforting, but I abhor the “Rainbow Bridge” jargon. But if there is something beyond, I hope Penny will deign to check in on me every now and again. I hope she’s gotten to meet Kismet and Gilgo, and maybe even my gran. I hope they’re all taking care of each other. I hope Penny is eating every flavor of Temptations and all the Lil Soups that can fit in her stomach. I hope she’s running and playing without a limp. I hope she can rest in sunshine like the beams that fell through the balcony door on a warm spring morning.
Miss Moneypenny was the best goddamn cat to ever live on this planet. I did not deserve her, but I am so glad we chose each other. And I would do it again, and again, and again.
Rest easy, pretty girl. I’ve got it from here.
Miss Moneypenny
February 3, 2018 — January 12, 2025(For the record, her birthdate is a total guess. I wanted to give her a Bond-related birthday, but nothing was working with her estimated age, so I went for a literary allusion instead and had her share with Gertrude Stein.)
In lieu of flowers, please hold your favorite furry friends close and, if you’re able, donate to a local animal rescue, so that other amazing animals can find loving homes and live the lives they deserve.
