Nearly two years ago I wrote a post musing about how middle age moved mean Mace to a more moderate space. Who knew he’d hang in long enough for an encore entry about a now (mostly) mellow old cat. The burly brown tabby turns 16 this summer, mind-boggling to me, but breath-holding to our friends at the Monticello Pet Hospital, where his chart is flagged to encourage efficiency. Get done and get out, save the social niceties for when the golden comes in.

But Mace’s gravelly growls never passed the Peaceful Protest Level of Objection at our 2022 annual exam, thanks to the introduction of a new modern marvel – the squeeze tube of tuna paste. A dab or two did nicely to distract my bad-tempered barn cat long enough to do what needed to be done.

What needed to be done included taking his temperature, a procedure so fraught with tension that a very veteran veterinarian once aborted his attempt to insert the thermometer under the fierce feline’s tail, opting instead to work under “the assumption that he has a fever”. That, my friends, is wisdom. In the interest of self-preservation, go with the educated guess.

The young readers who came to our Books in the Barn program called him “Crabby Cat”, a richly deserved moniker which was clarified to every rookie visitor, and confirmed by those foolish enough to believe they were blessed with cat-whispering capabilities beyond the rest of us.

Soap and clean towels by the barn sink. Here’s the Neosporin and the Band-Aids.

Maybe his leonine leanings contributed to his longevity. Mace came to the farm, a two-pound ten-ounce sweet-faced slip of a kitten, full of ear mites and a motor that never stopped purring. But a couple scraps with things that go bite in the night, a couple abscessed wounds, a couple unpleasant vet visits with a couple assumptions of the presence of fever are bound to leave a mark. He toughened up, and for a few years, put up fences for his own protection.

But he still showed up, did his job, and stayed just social enough to keep his spot on the roster while he worked through his temperament troubles.

Eventually, the growling and biting gave way to simply walking away, as time and experience presented a clearer picture of serviceable options. I guess that’s what age does for us. We learn who loves us enough to tolerate the occasional crabby moment, figure out what we contribute to the common good, discover where we feel safe and happy, decide when to pass on the major mousing to the young kits, and we understand why sitting on a cushioned chair in a cozy spot is simply the cat’s meow.

His belly’s a little big, his walk a little wobbly, and his actions a little less animated, but old Mace is still here, snaring the random rodent, missing zero meals, and sitting in front of the electric eye so the barn door doesn’t close until he’s caught a couple rays.

He accepts the occasional wrestling challenge from Fennel, appreciates the occasional cuddle from the two-leggeds, and assures the clinic staff of the continuing need to stock tuna-in-a-tube.

Maturity.