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Alex McRae Columnist

Published Sunday, October 16, 2011

Bye, buddy. It was a blast.

I don't say this often, but thank goodness for computers. If I had written this on a typewriter, the pages would be too soaked with tears to read.

Fifteen years after he came into my life as an eight-week-old bundle of terror, my cat George went to heaven. I'm sure he's already looked up his sister, Tammy, who joined the feline choir of angels just before the 2011 New Year's party began.

I selfishly wish he had stuck with me a little longer, but it was George's time to go, and my big orange buddy who once gleefully terrorized anybody in sight passed on as gently as the early autumn breeze that ruffled his coat for the last time on the walk from the car to the vet's office, wrapped in his favorite towel, purring gently and looking at me with the trust and love that never wavered during our time together.

All I have now are memories. Every one is precious.

George never owned a motorcycle but he was definitely born to be wild. Our first shared space was a second floor apartment with a small outdoor balcony. The first time I let him out there, George slipped though the porch rails and leaped into space without a care in the world. The bushes beneath the balcony broke his fall, but not his spirit. He made several more flights before I finally declared the little porch off limits.

George wasn't afraid of indoor heights, either. When he was young and strong and limber, no perch was beyond his reach. I found him atop six-foot bookcases, on the fireplace mantel and, once, peeking down from the top shelf of a closet. He must have clawed his way up some clothes to get there.

Kitchen counters were a snap, but George only traveled there for serious business, like food. I never left dinner fixings out, but one day I made the mistake of setting some homegrown tomatoes on the counter while I went outside to visit with the friend who delivered them.

A few minutes later I found George sitting on the counter with a grin on his face and tomato juice dripping from his jaws. Each and every tomato had been pierced by his tiny teeth.

George feared neither man, beast or machine. The first time I rolled the vacuum cleaner past him, instead of cowering in terror, George stuck out a paw, snagged the bag, then held on and slid across the floor as I Hoovered my way around an entire room. I had to pry him loose.

He wasn't afraid of other critters, either. I once saw him back down a dog several times his size, then go back to grooming like it was no big deal.

Maybe we bonded because we knew few other people (or cats) would put up with us. When we talked, no topic was off limits. The night before I took him to be neutered, we sat on the couch and I told him I'd been through it, too, and he'd be fine and not to worry. He seemed to believe me and I gave him a treat and we watched TV and went to sleep.

Half the time we were together, the household consisted of me and the cats. Most nights, George slept beside me with his head on my shoulder. When he was on the floor next to my chair, he'd put a paw on my foot. If I stood nearby without petting him every minute or so, he'd tap my leg with his paw to remind me he was there. I cherished those little nudges.

Some of his stunts drove me crazy, but I always forgave him and he returned the favor.

Last summer I ran over his rear end and broke his pelvis. I had never felt lower in my life, but the whole time I nursed him back to health there was never a despairing whine or reproachful look. He knew it was an accident and took it in stride. Some humans need to learn that trick, too, starting with me.

Recently he grew listless and lost his appetite, a definite sign of trouble in a cat that once tipped the scales at 23 pounds. When I couldn't even tempt him with a taste of his favorite tuna, I knew he had to go to the vet. And I knew the news might not be good. The night before the vet visit we slept together in the guest room.

The folks at the vet's office were sweet and gentle and treated George like a king, even though he was too feeble to appreciate it. Tests revealed some age-related problems that had been brewing for a while and gotten serious sooner than expected. The vet said considering his age and condition it would be hard for him to tolerate additional treatment that at best would provide mild relief for just a few more days.

Cramping what was left of George's sassy style wasn't an option for him or me. I finally quit wiping the tears from my face long enough to tell the vet I didn't want to take a chance on him dying while I wasn't by his side, that I wanted him to take his last few breaths while I was there to talk to him and hold him and gently stroke his soft fur one last time.

He went without a whimper and I brought him home and buried him in the backyard next to his sister. They're probably having a ball right now.

Anyone who has ever lost a pet feels responsible, that things might have been different if they had tried a little harder, cared a little more. I know I do.

But I also know that even if I had tended George a little better, I couldn't have loved him any more. When we looked at each other for the last time, I could tell he knew it, too.

That last glance was a gift I'll treasure forever.

•••

(send your e-mail comments to: alex@newnan.com )

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