Posted on 11/25/2003 9:56:23 AM PST by boris
My big old cat, Cloyd, passed away today, after 19 years of life with me. He came to me as a kitten, with his brother Gidney. Grey toms.
Gidney and Cloyd (named after the Moonmen in Rocky & Bullwinkle) had distinctly different personalities. Gidney was hyper; Cloyd laid back. Gidney was starved for affection, like a clinging girlfriend. Cloyd, from the beginning, was an irascible beast, accepting affection grudgingly, on his terms. I didnt much care for Gidney. I came to love Cloyd with all my heart. Gidney was easy; a slut. Cloyd played hard-to-get, a challenge. He seemed to say, If you want my trust and my affection you will have to earn it.
Both were indoor cats. One day, due to illness and dull thinking, I left the front door unlocked. The wind blew it open and Gidney vanished. A hawk or coyote got him, I suspect. I did not grieve much for Gidney, though I searched everywhere for him, put up flyers, made the rounds of the animal shelters.
Cloyd was alone. I thought him lonely, so I sought a companion. I wanted a female cat. Lady cats have bigger plumbing and dont block as easily as males. A friend called me from Albuquerque. He had a black cat abandoned by its owner. Male or female?
Male.
OK, Ill take it.v
Thats when Ringo appeared. A domestic long-hair, with a tail that loops into a circle as it comes off his back. He arrived sodden; completely soaked in his own urine. The idiot whod driven him up from Albuquerque had left him in a carrier for the entire trip. A more disheveled creature I have not seen. Ringo was almost named Helix but I thought that too cute.
Ringo turns out to be Gidney on steroids. He wants to worship at the Church of Boris, and is content only when in close physical contact with me. I hate him. Well, not really, but constant worship, even from a cat, becomes wearing.
Ringo used to be an outdoor cat, and he longs for the outside world. But, aside from a cat door to my 3rd floor balcony, he stayed in with Cloyd.
Cloyd, at about nine, began to have urinary blockages common to male cats. He had several surgeries, and almost died several times. He was a high-maintenance beast. I calculated that, over his lifetime, he has had well over $10,000 in medical bills. His most recent operation cost over $4,000. The vet and I had a conversation. This will be his last surgery. He couldnt survive another, and his quality of life would be zero. The thought of euthanizing him brought me to tears.
Thinking of the ordeals he has been through, I am amazed at his bravery and resilience. Nine lives I think Cloyd had 19. A tough guy and a trooper. I suspect that for the last couple of years, he has been suffering in silence. The vet told me his bladder wall was scarred and thickened to an almost incredible degree. Every time he urinated must have been a painful effort.
Cloyd was always a character. He liked dark colors. He would perch on a piece of cloth, a blanket, a garmentif it was dark. If I was wearing my navy robe, he would consent to sit on my chest. If I was wearing something light-colored, he would ignore me.
He used to love to sharpen his claws on my sneakers, eventually ripping out the toes completely. I gave him a pair of sneakers, and he quickly understood that he could do anything he wanted with them, but must leave my other ones alone. Eventually I threw them out; they were no longer recognizable as shoes.
Lately hed work on some black rubber flip-flops, slowly reducing them to tiny bits.
Cloyd was a low-volume beast. When God designed him, he set the volume control on Cloyds purr-motor at a very low level. You basically had to put your ear on his chest to hear anything at all. He wasnt talkative like many cats are and, like taciturn humans, his paucity of speech made you listen more carefully when he spoke.
I called him Rammer. He had the feline love of edges, rubbing his head on anything sharp or hard. I accommodated him. We developed a ritual. I would find things to rub his cat skull with. He loved the handle part of a pair of Fiskars scissors. The hub from a 50-CD stack was another fave. Pens and pencils. DAT tape containers.
When you live with a personand Cloyd was a personfor 19 years, you get to know them. Cloyd talked to me, and I to him. I knew what he liked, what he disliked, what he wanted, what was wrong. I gained a sixth sense that enabled me to detect when his bladder was blocked and rush him to the vet.
What can you say about a cat that you loved and who has died? Cloyd was a good and true friend, a faithful companion, a joy, and a nuisance. Id be much richerin dollarsif Id never met him, but much poorerin spiritif I had not. He was a good cat. A much better cat than I am a person. Ten thousand dollars? Id have gladly spent sixty thousand, if itd given him relief and a few more years.
So now I am left with Ringo, a second fiddle who is suddenly first. But it is not the same, without the big old curmudgeonly bachelor cat who so resembled me in temperament.
I am going to miss Mr. Cloyd for a long time. I feel his lack as an aching absence that I will never get used to. I will grieve over him as I would over any family member. And as long as I live, he will live in my mind. It is my fond hope that his soul and mine might again meet, on the other side. If there is a Heaven, he is bound for it. My own destination is less certain. But I wouldnt mind a bit, if the Lord would permit me to share eternity with my friend Cloyd the Cat.
Petroni - I know I missed some...
Someone remarked that every cat is always at his/her best. The very best cat it could possibly be.
Thanks for the ping YiO!
My theory is that anything capable of love must have a soul. Cats are certainly capable of love; therefore, their soul lives on after they pass. I hope to be reunited with my pets in heaven.
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