What an Adventure!
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Tiger “This one’s got a strong heart!” —the vet at six months |
Spot you are now gone The mice still flee in terror Your heart-space: still warm — Ron |
Blue Steel Rest in Peace, My Good Friend. |
Squirt, Baby, Spot,
and Blue Steel go home.
Tiger Holds Out the Longest.
Buddy Guy is Almost Four!
Sadly, Squirt left us on April 6th, 2005, being about 18 years old. Baby joined her this past winter (2006–7), also closing in on her 18th birthday. And tragically, Spot was diagnosed with cancer earlier this year, leaving us on June 3, 2007. This is particularly trying for us because she was only ten years old, and also because she is so well known in this little neighborhood as well as online.
Blue Steel was taking it in stride, spending much of his time following Cliff around the house and spinning “round and round” in the office chair. Cliff bought him a geriatric exam for his tenth birthday. Steely passed it with flying colors. Within two months he was dead of cardiac arrest. Blue Boy went quickly and without much pain. In retrospect, we can see genetic problems in his body makeup and hints of heart disease in the progression of his health during his final year of life. Cliff still has yet to come to terms with Steel’s demise, and may not get over it for quite some time (if at all). The song “Mr Bojangles” comes to mind. Blue Steel was special beyond words. Tiger took the loss of his mother quite hard, remaining hidden for about two weeks. A week or so after Steel’s death, Tiger, then the only animal in the house (besides me!), burst out of his shell for the first time since he was a tiny kitten. While he still won’t let others touch him, he no longer hides when guests visit.
It wasn’t the same, though. As much as I love Tiger, I’ve never had much of a chance to get to know him. After Steel’s death, the house seemed to fill up with all these ghosts of cats, to the point where I could barely stand it. (I know I’m an atheist. I’m just describing what it felt like.) So I ordered a purebred Russian Blue (Squirty was prolly a Russian Blue) spending about one-fifth the going rate for him. I called him Buddy Guy, after the guitarist. Long ago I had promised my vet I wouldn’t name any more cats “Squirt”! (I can see how a vet can get something vastly different from a name like “Squirt” than what I had in mind: “Scram, ya li’l squirt, ya bothah me!” She gave the local cats quite a bit of grief when she first showed up!) Buddy guy’s arrival brought initial confusion upon Tiger, which is to be expected. But with a month of this feisty kitten working on him Tiger started to respond. (Wa’al, if you call swattin’ the li’l pest away a healthy response!) Lately, though, this has morphed into play-fighting. Despite the criticism I received from the two or three people I know (everyone but me thinks I’m on the brink of death), bringing Buddy into the picture is a move I don’t think I’ll ever regret. He is a fine, fine cat. Now, if he would only hurry up and outgrow this kitten stage — (December 6, 2008)
I sit here with an almost silent Tiger in my lap, having managed to elicit a very faint purr. It’s time. I had hoped he would go by natural causes but his greatest advantage, a strong cardiovascular system (according to the vet who neutered the two boys), seems to have worked to his disadvantage as we play out the end game. So I’ve made the toughest decision that an animal’s human friend faces: I await a handicapped transport vehicle to shuttle us off into the night. Our destination is the 24-hour Dove Lewis clinic. Tiger’s body continues to rally long after helplessness and dehydration would have taken most cats home. So I find I must put my closest friend out of his misery. It’s time. Tiger has (simultaneously) the most complex, the most gentle, and the most innocent disposition I’ve ever even seen in an animal friend. It’s going to take me a long time for me to recover. (the wee minutes March 17, 2012)
