Moxie the soft drink and I have a troubled past. Picture a large outdoor Moxie brand thermometer with a dark-eyed pharmacist painted at the top. He's pointing at you. He has the look of a mad scientist. Now picture a rusty hole where the pharmacist's nose should be, the result of nailing the thermometer to a barn. And lastly imagine this thermometer brought inside and hung from a beam in the attic room where you sleep: the ghostly white and corrupt face of the Moxie Guy, glowing like swamp gas in the dark, bound in a white lab coat -- or is it a shroud? -- pointing straight into your shaking heart, demanding that you DRINK MOXIE.
I'll never forget that bloodless, noseless face, commanding me to drink the foulest tonic in history.
I mention this because I want you to understand that I don't like Moxie. When I hear the name, I shudder.
Virginia Moore sent along a story about another Moxie.
Despite the calm you see on Moxie's face, she has an aggressive cancer, and her time is limited. Virginia invites you all to come by and share in her spirit while you can.
Says Virginia, "She likes to sit peacefully on top of the little refrigerator in the room, eyes closed, with what I swear looks like a smile. When you say her name she opens her eyes and responds with a happy meow, standing up to greet you. When you pet her she says thank you with her whole body, rolling on her back and writhing in joy that someone is paying attention to her.
"We don't know Moxie's history, only that she was in bad shape when she came to us last fall, with mouth injuries and malnutrition. Someone brought her in after they found her abandoned in a cat carrier in a driveway. It has taken her a long time to trust, and to feel joy, but now she is making up for lost time."
I might as well alert those who need to know: when my time comes, I doubt I'll be as agreeable as Moxie.
Stop by and join the Meowish for Moxie Club. Sign her card. Lean in close and let her climb onto your shoulder, in the manner of monks who prefer mountain tops. If you listen carefully, between the purrs, maybe she'll whisper her hard-won secret for living in the moment: enjoying what you have when you have it. And remembering to say thanks.