After seventeen wonderful years, Margaux “Monkey Girl,” the girl with the softest tufts of hair behind her ears has left us. She is survived by her parents, Alison and Max and two brothers, Charlie and Lenny.
Margaux was born in 2010 from a litter into the backyard of an elderly Polish woman on Metropolitan Avenue in Brooklyn, New York. One of several kittens that were “too wild” to put into the “Free Kittens” box on the street, her prospective new mother couldn’t resist inquiring about what type of kitten might be “too wild.” She was led into the backyard through a dark apartment to discover the tiny feral girl hissing under a picnic table, black and brown stripes with green eyes and sporadically placed moments of white fur. She was not especially friendly– in fact, the opposite– and even though she had just moved to New York and was in no position to care for a new kitten, the prospective new mother had fallen in love with this little feisty gal. She had no choice but to bring her home. Poised and palpably elegant from the start, she would name her Margaux, spelled the French way, even though neither of them had ever been to France.
New Mother brought her back to the second floor walk-up on Manhattan Avenue where she paid $750 for a room which fit one full sized IKEA bed and one nightstand procured from the street. The bedroom windows didn’t lock, but that’s okay— it was only broken into once.
Understandably unsure of this new home, baby Margaux spent her time exclusively under the bed, coming out to eat, drink and use her box only if she was certain there was nobody else around. After several sleepless nights of mournful meowing, every attempt at coaxing her out met with severely aggressive swipes that drew blood on more than one occasion, new mother had begun to wonder if perhaps this kitten was simply too feral. She thought of a scene in one of her favorite movies— Legends of the Fall— where one of the characters is out till dawn attempting to break a wild horse. She would try again tomorrow.
On the fifth night, desperate and out of patience, new mother went under the bed and grabbed the feral kitten by the back of the neck (she thought maybe it would remind the feral kitten of her real mother, wherever she was) with a thick bath towel and held her tight under the covers. Within minutes, she succumbed and began to purr louder than new mother had ever heard an animal purr. It was, as if in an instant, she had become domesticated.
(The memories from this time were not fortified by iPhones, but somewhere there exists a single grainy image taken on a BlackBerry Pearl™️of the tiny kitten, sitting in a single thrifted blue Marc Jacobs flat, one half of the nicest pair of shoes new mother had ever owned.)
After another attempted break-in in the walk-up on Manhattan Avenue, Margaux and her mother relocated to the top floor of 96-year-old Mrs. Lemanski’s row house in Greenpoint. Here, Margaux had a roommate named Ronnie, a cat with thick, white fur, diabetes, piercing blue eyes and a low tolerance for Margaux's playfulness. While she had a good time with Ronnie, this was one of the last times Margaux would ever voluntarily enjoy the company of another cat.
Adaptable and never quite minded being placed into a cat carrier, Margaux was the ideal travel companion. Anywhere could be home if she had a nice blanket and a spot in the sun and nobody to bother her, though sometimes she would pee into a suitcase if she thought she was being left behind.
First, there was the old school house building on Rivington where she lived for a short while. It was here that she first expressed an interest in hunting, catching and (nearly but not quite, but could have if she wanted) killing mice. Preternaturally gifted at sensing rodent activity under dishwashers, she’d once brought a half-dead mouse to the bedside as a gift and once, directly into the bed (her mother screamed then remembered you’re supposed to thank them, not scold them– they don’t know it’s not the gift they think it is). You got the feeling it was her favorite thing she'd ever done.
Then, there was the apartment they shared with the old CUNY professor on East 10th street and Avenue B, followed by the small one-bedroom in Prospect-Lefferts they had all to themselves. Eventually, they landed in their current neighborhood, which spanned three apartments all within a few blocks of one another, including the one with the tiny kitchen everyone misses. Of course, there were also the three-hour trips up and down NY-87 to the house in Bloomville, which she seemed to love most of all, even though she rarely left mother’s bed.
In 2023, thirteen-year-old Margaux’s world was forever changed with the introduction of her new fluffy baby brother, Lenny. Not since Ronnie had Margaux shared physical space with another cat, and not since those early days under the bed had her mother witnessed so much hissing.
It got easier with time as Lenny learned to stay away from Margaux’s favorite chair and never attempt to co-exist on the bed at night, though you could tell she never quite felt comfortable with this new dynamic (the hissing persisted. Oh, did it persist). Lenny sought constant companionship while Margaux was far more comfortable with whatever the opposite of that was. Illustrative of his disposition, Lenny never took it personally, and Lenny never gave up. As long as he could be near her— often it was Margaux on top of the bed, Lenny on the floor— it was enough.
When baby Charlie came into the picture, everyone hoped that Margaux would be at best curious and at worst, indifferent, but to everyone's delight, Margaux seemed immediately attached, nuzzling against her mothers pregnant belly during every nap, as if to say hello, I'm Margaux and I don't like everyone, but I already like you.
Once born, Margaux’s affection intensified, needing to be near for every feeding, every cuddle, every nap. Only when Charlie started to crawl (and Margaux’s health declined), did she do everything in her power to escape the new menace, who is still learning the word “gentle.”
In her last year on earth, Margaux began to allow Lenny on the bed for naps during the day, and then, in her final months, occasionally at night. A sign, among others, perhaps the end was near. The day before she said goodbye, they were seen sharing one small cushion together on Margaux’s favorite chair, the closest they had ever been to one another. It was then her mother knew it was time.
While Margaux was not shy, she was picky, reserving her deepest affections for one person at a time. When she chose you, she was insatiable in her demand for physical touch, walking across laptop keyboards for attention and sleeping on top of your head, adamant on administering as many licks as you could stand to any exposed part of your skin, including but not limited to: your face, arm and hand. Her mother feels guilty for ever having been annoyed by the constant licking, but more than that, she feels lucky to have been chosen.
