I Loved a Cat Once....

.....  A cat called, George.

Me & George in the 80s before he was REALLY old.

George lived to be 22 years old.  Have we all seen a 22 year old, orange, overweight cat?  I hope so.  If not, here is an artistic depiction because apparently, nobody took photos in the nineties:

George was in my life for 16 years before passing into the nethercat regions of Heaven.  The special place reserved for cats that nobody could bear to let go of.  George was one of us. We called him George L.  As far as awesome cats go, he was the mayor. 

In the beginning, George was a wonderful kitty.  He was cranky, he looked great in a tie, he had a little heart shaped patch of fur on his front, right foot which meant he loved us.  Yes it did. He was fat,  he ate spaghetti and peanut butter.  All of these things make for an awesome example to all cats of how to behave.

Since George left us, there has been a hole in my life that has so far not been entirely filled by the string of cats I've owned since.

There has been:
Finster:  Who might have had some awesome cat qualities, but someone stole him.  I knew he was stolen because he kept leaving and coming home a few days later smelling of old lady house.   Finster was PINK.   Naturally Pink.  He was a creamy greyish pink color.  He had potential.
MacGoo-  A runt kitten with buggy eyes who died under my staircase
Molly-  Ate bits of metal.  Also died.  From eating metal.  Mainly tinfoil.
Elmo-  Was very attacky with the men in the house.  Elmo hated male anyone.  Elmo stalked my toddler and got rehomed.  If my brothers stopped in, he would relentlessly fly at them.
Squirt- Got pregnant and ran away, but she could open the fridge freezer by jumping at it.  No, really.  She could.  She was after me rum.

Stop looking at me like that.  I'm not addicted to getting cats.  I can quit any time I want.  What if there was an apocalypse and subsequent major cat shortage?  Yeah, you'd be coming to ME for you cat needs. 

Just kidding.  All those other cats are dead or live somewhere else or something.  Whew, eh?  Currently we have:  Fluffy Sparkles (who is the only cat I like and looks great in a shirt) and Smarties the whore cat who is in heat 24/7 which makes it impossible to get her to the vet and have her spayed.  She knows the routine of when we have enough money to spay her and when to inch herself down the hallway, calling out the men with her ass high in the sky, eventually settling down with which ever stuffed toy the kids left out, pawing it and wrapping her little cat legs around it as she croons a soft love serenade to it.   I threw a pillow at her the other night to get her to stop writhing in ecstasy in my door jam.  The pillow did not deter her.  I think she liked it. 

That's why I hate Smarties the Cat

George would never have done that.  Sure, he pissed in the corner of the storage room sometimes, but who doesn't?   Am I right?   Right.

Poor taste nuthin.

Sure, he went deaf and then couldn't hear how loud he was meowing, much like when you try and talk to teenagers who haven't turned their ipods off.  It was kind of a wailing banshee meow that he reserved for late at night and when we had company.

Company:  Um... I'm having trouble sleeping
Cat:  MARRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWW*highpitched wail*OOOOOROROWWW
Us:  Oh?  Is your bed not warm enough?  Let me get you a blanket.
Company:  No... Please kill your pet.

Sure he was blind and sat on top of the heat register, meowing into the cupboard door all day.

Sure, once he got old, his fat started to sag into a sack of cat fat dangling to the floor, the weight pulling on his spine as he waddled along, waiting for you to put peanut butter in his cat food bowl, only eventually finding his way there because you put his face in it.

Sure, my friends would come home with me from school wielding sticks to poke at him, because they wanted to make sure he wasn't dead.

Sure, handfuls of fur came off of him in your hand when you tried to pat him.

Sure, all of our company couldn't stop themselves from suggesting we take him for a trip to the vet for his forever nap when confronted with the sagging, drooling, screeching, crypt keeper of an animal.

Put GEORGE to sleep?  Are you mad?  That's like suggesting we shoot poor Grammy.

The day came when George did not come home.   We had a family meeting about it.  We cried, we knew it was going to happen, he was, after all 22 years old.  We were glad he'd had such a good life with us.

But then we found out later that my Dad made my sister's new boyfriend take him to the vet and put him down for us and swore him to secrecy. She later married that boyfriend.  He lived with this guilt for 6 years.  Every time we would have a family memorial conversation about how much we loved George, my poor brother in law had to silently endure the pangs of guilt as though there was some kind of telltale kitty-heart pumping in our floorboards until he couldn't take it any more and admitted it to my sister.   

Barry killed George.  We allll know the truth now.