My cat, George, died today.
Sixteen years and four months ago we went to the Burbank animal shelter to find a kitten to keep Duhgie company. Nellie had died a month before and we were all lonesome. We decided we’d get a female kitten. We hoped Duhg would react better to a female. So, we toured the facility. In one cage was a mother cat who’d been brought to the shelter and had given birth to five kittens. The kittens were now about 8 weeks old and ready for adoption, so we picked out a pretty little black & white girl. But kittens are like potato chips to Gordon; he can’t have just one. “We can’t expect a kitten to handle Duhg all by herself,” he declared. “We should take one more.” A fuzzy little black & white kitten stared up at us curiously during the discussion. He seemed the bravest of the bunch, so we took him, too. And, of course, he was named Curious George. Gordon was in an Albee frame of mind, so he named the female Martha. I thought it was an unpleasant play, so I shortened the name to Marta. And our family was complete for a while.
Duhg never grew to like the kittens and he died two years later–mostly out of spite, I think. We still had the tuxedo twins, so we were happy. Marta died from unknown causes when she was almost 11 so we got another kitten so George wouldn’t be alone. I think he would have preferred the solitude, but Gracie was here to stay.
George was my buddy. He sat next to me on the couch as I wrote. He slept on my side of the bed. And he always got what he wanted. If he didn’t care for the food offering, he’d politely stick one claw into my leg to get my attention. The claw treatment would be repeated until he got something he liked. He eventually weighed 18 pounds from all that food. He had huge teeth and claws, but he never used them in anger against us–just to get better food. And no matter how many times you changed the water in his bowl, he preferred the downstairs toilet. He waited until I flushed, (he liked a fresh bowl) then he’d be butt-up in the toilet like a drunken frat boy. He protected the house from raccoon incursions. He’d sit at the cat door, hissing and spitting, and if a raccoon nose appeared he’d swipe at it with those big claws. One night a coyote was sniffing at the cat door. I turned on the light to see and Georgie charged out the cat door, tail up and fluffy, ears back. He chased that coyote across the backyard and over the fence. When he didn’t come back, I thought the coyote had a well-marbled cat snack and I went into mourning. But 15 minutes later, Georgie sauntered back into the house, looking very pleased with himself. I didn’t know whether to hug him or bellow at him so, I did both. “You could have been killed!” I screeched as I hugged him. “That coyote would eat you!” George just purred. He’d protected his house. He was my brave, brave boy.
He also brought new vernacular into the house. He had long hair on his “pants” and in his early days feral cats would literally scare the crap out of him. We called it having a case of “stinky butt” and I’d throw him in the shower with Gordon to get cleaned up. Georgie would look at me piteously as if asking, “Why are you doing this to me?” But he never raised a claw. Maybe he appreciated the bath.
George left giant pawprints on the stairwell walls for us to remember him by. When he felt frisky, he’d tear up and down the stairs And, of course, he never used the steps; he careened off the walls. He left Sasquatch prints all over. And he knew when the luggage came out, he was going to be alone with Gracie for a while. So, he peed all over an unguarded suitcase. I didn’t know a cat could have that much pee in him. He drowned that suitcase. I learned to hide the luggage. He also insisted on having an indoor cat box that was exclusively his (Gracie goes outside–she lived a rough life before she came to us so she can handle peeing outdoors). And his box had to be clean. If it wasn’t, he’d pee on the dirty clothes pile. Message received. I cleaned his box.
He was the most beautiful cat we’ve ever had. He was my Gorgeous George, a good, noble cat. And now he’s gone. I had him for 16 years and four months–and it still doesn’t seem like enough time. Already we’re feeling the chasm he left. No one is giving me ‘The Claw’ to get a treat or different food. No one is sitting next to me and purring. No one is parked facing his food bowl, waiting for something he likes, and clogging traffic. He was spoiled rotten and could be so annoying. But I want him back. And I can’t have him.
There’s a hole in my heart. And it’s bleeding.
