The Night of Family Pets
Oct. 31st, 2005 12:34 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
stitchwhichThis is the last Night of Observation, late as usual (gee, this writing after midnight is getting to be a habit)... The Night of Family Pets.
I was going to write about Cindy, my last basset hound, but really, after I said goodbye to her ( http://rosine.diaryland.com/020905_35.html) I found that I don't have anything to add. And Gimli... ah, Gimli. I wasn't going to write about him, .
Arn was out to sea again and I'd never heard of the SCA when Gimli came into our home. I'd promised a friend that I'd adopt one of her cat's kittens after they were born. She was pregnant and alone with a three-year-old since both our hubbys were out to sea for half a year. The litter was born and I chose a little black female with a white star blaze on her chest. I named her Arwen, for "the Evening Star". I'd hoped she'd grow up as elegant as Tolkien's fictional character.
About one day before I was supposed to pick up the cat, when the owner was due to enter the hospital for a long and kinda scary delivery (there were some hard medical things involved), she called me - would I be willing to take the little brother of Arwen too? He was tiny, tiny, tiny and born two days after the others, the only other cat that was black. At 8 weeks, his tail tip and nose (with body between) could each be stretched out on my palm without reaching my wrist or the end of my fingers. The owner didn't think he was going to live past her hospital stay and she didn't want to come home to an alienated 3 year old with a newborn and her own scars to heal and face a search for a dead kitten on top of that. So I said yes, I'd take him and care for him until he passed on. I hadn't really wanted yet another black cat, but what could one do?
He was so very small. He looked more like a strange mouse than a cat. I could set him on my shoulder and he'd burrow into the hair flowing over my neck and just nestle, purring, under my ear. He'd stay there for hours while I read, cooked, talked with our sons. I rarely had alone time - he was so distressed when I left him to his own devices. The past owner went in and out of the hospital and I could report that Arwen was acting more like an Orc than an Elf, which always made her laugh, but Gimli was being a sweetheart and was still breathing - imagine that!
He'd somehow sneak into our bedroom and I'd wake up with him laying across the top of my pillow trying to warm my head. How he climbed into the waterbed was a mystery. His behavior when Arn came home to claim the bed was - comical, if not a little painful for Arn until Gimli understood who got priority. Well, in the bedroom, at least. Where we could shut the door on him. (Not that he didn't find a way to learn to open doors later - which necessitated a trip to Lowe's to get a bedroom door handle that locked from the inside. Insistant brat!)
He grew. He caught up with his sister, who did finally become aloof, elegant and daintily small, and passed her by in size. When he finally stopped growing, he was a solid (can we say "massive"?) block of muscle that weighed 28 (I'm NOT kidding) pounds. Jet black. Green eyes. Could jump on the back of a lazyboy chair and make it topple backwards (he always seemed so embarrassed when he did that until he learned to make sure there was an adult human in the chair first so he wouldn't have to suffer through thumps followed by cries of "Mommmm! Gimli hurt me!"). He never lost his desire to sit on my shoulder. We finally compromised with him hogging the "top of chair" by my ear, where he'd busy himself grooming my hair and purring and kneading my head (ouch!) - at least until I indicated that I was getting up so he'd better move before the chair did, and with "in lap, but if you snag my knitting, you die". It was a family giggle to see me with that mass of vibrating cement in my lap while knitting thread bobbled in front of his oh-so-disdainful face and whatever sweater I was working on bounced across his back as I changed rows. He was quite dignified about it all, if you discounted the occassional sniff and claw show.
I had a habit of walking to the 7-11 or just around the neighbourhood at night. It was a safer place back then... Gimli'd go with me. And play Guardcat. When I'd reach the end of his territory, I'd know it - because he'd start cat-cussing. Ordering me back, getting frustrated. Vocalising with grumpiness. Didn't I understand that I was going too far? I finally, in a desperate attempt to get the cat to *shut up*, turned one night and said "Gimli, I'm going to the store and I'll be right back. Deal with it. And shut up before someone tries to shoot you." He stiffened and glared - and stalked over to a bush by the sidewalk, where he sat oh-so-superior and coolly looked at me. Okay, he would wait. But he didn't like it. Then he posed like an Egyptian temple cat... in a huff.
I was a little bemused but he was finally quiet so what the heck? I went to the store, got my drink and snack, and came back. He was still waiting for me. The trip home did not feature cat-trying-to-trip-human. It was instead a show of a mammoth Japanese GrannyCat chewing me out while trailing the required ten steps behind, grumbling and giving me what-for until I got in the house, settled in my chair, and stayed still. At which point he jumped (oof!) into my lap, sitting upright and in the classic cat's "I'm affronted" pose and glared at me, all his weight somehow concentrated on just his four paws. *That* was painful. I petted his ears. He maintained pose. I scratched the good spot and he reluctantly decided to switch attitudes. Then he settled on my lap, with much kneading and turning around first, and purred himself to sleep. With one ear twitching back occasionally to let me know he'd not forgotten or forgiven yet.
That became the pattern of my night time walks. I didn't know "Fat Cat" could do such a good imitation of a peeved old woman. He didn't appreciate me pointing it out to him.
He trained our basset puppy, Cindy, to think she was feline. She even stood on her hind legs and batted string, thanks to her adoptive daddy. And Gim would be quick to correct any impertinence she showed towards him. He didn't seem to understand that her attempts at purring were the best she could do. When one is a 5 pound puppy with soft floppy ears, one paid attention to the 28-pound Headmaster!
I'm not going to write about his loss one October. I miss him still and have never been able to understand, even years later, what kind of fear or "Christian righteousness" could drive an adult to poison a cat simply for it's color and the faith of it's owner. The neighbourhood kids offered to tell me who'd poisoned him. Given that it was one of their parents, I couldn't understand that either. Nothing was going to bring him back - why should I add hatred (because I knew myself well enough to know that forgiveness would be years in coming if I knew who did it) to Gimli's story? They didn't understand. Children are so basic - someone hurt me, I should hate them. Now that they're adults, mostly, sometimes they tell me that it was a profound lesson for them although it was years before they did finally understand. Oddly, child-like, they'd each kept the episode in their heads and never mentioned it through the long years. But they stood guard over Cindy with a fierce protectiveness that confused their parents.
I miss that monster cat, but I know wherever he is, he's having fun. And my eldest son, knowing that I needed healing, surprised me with another cat about 10 years later on Mother's Day - another black one. He said I needed to heal and he was right. That cat didn't enjoy living in our home and is now somewhere else but she taught me how much I missed having a feline about and opened my heart back up to coping with my fears for my pets... we have a little white Manx now who delights everyone she meets. And oddly, my neighbors, young and old, love her.
I was going to write about Cindy, my last basset hound, but really, after I said goodbye to her ( http://rosine.diaryland.com/020905_35.html) I found that I don't have anything to add. And Gimli... ah, Gimli. I wasn't going to write about him, .
Arn was out to sea again and I'd never heard of the SCA when Gimli came into our home. I'd promised a friend that I'd adopt one of her cat's kittens after they were born. She was pregnant and alone with a three-year-old since both our hubbys were out to sea for half a year. The litter was born and I chose a little black female with a white star blaze on her chest. I named her Arwen, for "the Evening Star". I'd hoped she'd grow up as elegant as Tolkien's fictional character.
About one day before I was supposed to pick up the cat, when the owner was due to enter the hospital for a long and kinda scary delivery (there were some hard medical things involved), she called me - would I be willing to take the little brother of Arwen too? He was tiny, tiny, tiny and born two days after the others, the only other cat that was black. At 8 weeks, his tail tip and nose (with body between) could each be stretched out on my palm without reaching my wrist or the end of my fingers. The owner didn't think he was going to live past her hospital stay and she didn't want to come home to an alienated 3 year old with a newborn and her own scars to heal and face a search for a dead kitten on top of that. So I said yes, I'd take him and care for him until he passed on. I hadn't really wanted yet another black cat, but what could one do?
He was so very small. He looked more like a strange mouse than a cat. I could set him on my shoulder and he'd burrow into the hair flowing over my neck and just nestle, purring, under my ear. He'd stay there for hours while I read, cooked, talked with our sons. I rarely had alone time - he was so distressed when I left him to his own devices. The past owner went in and out of the hospital and I could report that Arwen was acting more like an Orc than an Elf, which always made her laugh, but Gimli was being a sweetheart and was still breathing - imagine that!
He'd somehow sneak into our bedroom and I'd wake up with him laying across the top of my pillow trying to warm my head. How he climbed into the waterbed was a mystery. His behavior when Arn came home to claim the bed was - comical, if not a little painful for Arn until Gimli understood who got priority. Well, in the bedroom, at least. Where we could shut the door on him. (Not that he didn't find a way to learn to open doors later - which necessitated a trip to Lowe's to get a bedroom door handle that locked from the inside. Insistant brat!)
He grew. He caught up with his sister, who did finally become aloof, elegant and daintily small, and passed her by in size. When he finally stopped growing, he was a solid (can we say "massive"?) block of muscle that weighed 28 (I'm NOT kidding) pounds. Jet black. Green eyes. Could jump on the back of a lazyboy chair and make it topple backwards (he always seemed so embarrassed when he did that until he learned to make sure there was an adult human in the chair first so he wouldn't have to suffer through thumps followed by cries of "Mommmm! Gimli hurt me!"). He never lost his desire to sit on my shoulder. We finally compromised with him hogging the "top of chair" by my ear, where he'd busy himself grooming my hair and purring and kneading my head (ouch!) - at least until I indicated that I was getting up so he'd better move before the chair did, and with "in lap, but if you snag my knitting, you die". It was a family giggle to see me with that mass of vibrating cement in my lap while knitting thread bobbled in front of his oh-so-disdainful face and whatever sweater I was working on bounced across his back as I changed rows. He was quite dignified about it all, if you discounted the occassional sniff and claw show.
I had a habit of walking to the 7-11 or just around the neighbourhood at night. It was a safer place back then... Gimli'd go with me. And play Guardcat. When I'd reach the end of his territory, I'd know it - because he'd start cat-cussing. Ordering me back, getting frustrated. Vocalising with grumpiness. Didn't I understand that I was going too far? I finally, in a desperate attempt to get the cat to *shut up*, turned one night and said "Gimli, I'm going to the store and I'll be right back. Deal with it. And shut up before someone tries to shoot you." He stiffened and glared - and stalked over to a bush by the sidewalk, where he sat oh-so-superior and coolly looked at me. Okay, he would wait. But he didn't like it. Then he posed like an Egyptian temple cat... in a huff.
I was a little bemused but he was finally quiet so what the heck? I went to the store, got my drink and snack, and came back. He was still waiting for me. The trip home did not feature cat-trying-to-trip-human. It was instead a show of a mammoth Japanese GrannyCat chewing me out while trailing the required ten steps behind, grumbling and giving me what-for until I got in the house, settled in my chair, and stayed still. At which point he jumped (oof!) into my lap, sitting upright and in the classic cat's "I'm affronted" pose and glared at me, all his weight somehow concentrated on just his four paws. *That* was painful. I petted his ears. He maintained pose. I scratched the good spot and he reluctantly decided to switch attitudes. Then he settled on my lap, with much kneading and turning around first, and purred himself to sleep. With one ear twitching back occasionally to let me know he'd not forgotten or forgiven yet.
That became the pattern of my night time walks. I didn't know "Fat Cat" could do such a good imitation of a peeved old woman. He didn't appreciate me pointing it out to him.
He trained our basset puppy, Cindy, to think she was feline. She even stood on her hind legs and batted string, thanks to her adoptive daddy. And Gim would be quick to correct any impertinence she showed towards him. He didn't seem to understand that her attempts at purring were the best she could do. When one is a 5 pound puppy with soft floppy ears, one paid attention to the 28-pound Headmaster!
I'm not going to write about his loss one October. I miss him still and have never been able to understand, even years later, what kind of fear or "Christian righteousness" could drive an adult to poison a cat simply for it's color and the faith of it's owner. The neighbourhood kids offered to tell me who'd poisoned him. Given that it was one of their parents, I couldn't understand that either. Nothing was going to bring him back - why should I add hatred (because I knew myself well enough to know that forgiveness would be years in coming if I knew who did it) to Gimli's story? They didn't understand. Children are so basic - someone hurt me, I should hate them. Now that they're adults, mostly, sometimes they tell me that it was a profound lesson for them although it was years before they did finally understand. Oddly, child-like, they'd each kept the episode in their heads and never mentioned it through the long years. But they stood guard over Cindy with a fierce protectiveness that confused their parents.
I miss that monster cat, but I know wherever he is, he's having fun. And my eldest son, knowing that I needed healing, surprised me with another cat about 10 years later on Mother's Day - another black one. He said I needed to heal and he was right. That cat didn't enjoy living in our home and is now somewhere else but she taught me how much I missed having a feline about and opened my heart back up to coping with my fears for my pets... we have a little white Manx now who delights everyone she meets. And oddly, my neighbors, young and old, love her.
