George
by isabelrogers
An old friend of mind died this week. I’d known him nearly seventeen years, and he’d steadfastly supported me through some wild and eventful times. His name was George, and he was a cat. If you think crying because your cat died is plain silly, this post is not for you. Soz.
I first heard about George and his brother in 1997. Their mother and her two feral kittens had been picked up by the RSPCA as strays, all terrified of people and completely unsocialised. The mother had been offered a home, but they couldn’t take three. I hadn’t planned it, but sometimes you are just in the right place.
So I brought two tiny kittens home, so badly infested with fleas you could feel the bumps of tightly packed parasites under their fur; both anaemic, with heart murmurs. The vet told me not to expect too much. But we killed the fleas (with only minor blood loss myself as they fought back), and they spent a few days hiding in appalled distain behind the books on my shelves in case I tried that again.
What to name them? They’d been seen by at least two vets, who agreed we had a boy and a girl. I like books. The male kitten looked so handsome I thought he should be Mr Darcy. Of course, what else could his sister be but Georgiana? She had gorgeous fluffy fur, and looked delicately feminine. When they returned some weeks later from the inevitable ‘coming of age’ vet appointment, I was informed that sometimes appearances can be deceptive, and the bill wasn’t quite as high as I’d feared. Luckily, George didn’t seem to suffer psychological harm from his brief sojourn as a girl.
They lived with me in London, then came along as I moved to the Highlands for a decade, which allowed them to expand their hunting repertoire from the usual mice and rats to moles and the (very) occasional low-flying bat. George was always fat. Quicker than Darcy, his typical day would involve a lot of sleep, a quick wash, food, then back to sleep. If he thought I hadn’t provided quite enough supper, it was a matter of a moment to nip outside, leap on some unfortunate snack, and return to snooze it off. This is him staking out a rabbit hole.
While in Scotland he had an accident that nearly killed him: probably hit by a car but I never found out. He went missing for two days, eventually crawling back home where I found him under a hedge, incontinent, with a paralysed back end and fly maggots hatching in his legs where his urine had given him sores. The vet took him in without much hope, and he stayed there all week. They wanted to put him down, but let me take him home to see if I could nurse him to any sort of improvement. I brought water and food to his bed, took away towels he had soiled, and rubbed cream into his sores four times a day. Almost his entire back half had been shaved so he looked like a bizarre poodle, with just the end of his tail and back feet left furry.
After five days, he purred again. After ten days, he got up to drink. I don’t know how many of his nine lives that had taken.
We moved back to England a few years ago, and he spent his grand old age roaming Hampshire fields and sleeping by the Aga. If you don’t deserve a permanently warm Aga when you’re old, I don’t know when you do.
He had the loudest purr. It would start if you said his name. We would have to turn the television up if he came to sit on our laps. He could purr non-stop for the entire duration of a film.
And then, last Monday evening I went upstairs to bring him down for the night and saw him sleeping on my bed. I said hello, and he didn’t purr. I knew before I looked properly that he had died: a George who didn’t purr was not George. He looked so peaceful, he must have gone in his sleep, and so recently he was still warm. I was there, holding his paw and weeping, when my husband got home and found us.
We buried him in the garden the next day, and I’ll get a stone with his name to lay over the top. Darcy is wandering round looking forlorn, as we all are. I haven’t yet had the heart to put the second cat bowl away. We all keep wishing he’d come back.
What a fitting obituary for a fine and handsome cat. Thinking of you all.
Thank you. And you had to put up with me when he was so poorly! Doubt I was concentrating on the job …
Lovely, lovely post, Isabel. Have been through this so often myself. My Smudge was nearly twenty when she went. I just howled and howled.
Look after yourself
(((((hugs)))))
They get to you, don’t they? Twenty is really going some. x
I wept with you in remembrance of a dear ginger cat of mine, called Piglet because as a kitten his tail curled up over his back. He was my best friend during the trauma of a divorce in Devon, moved with me to Wiltshire and then came with me to Portugal where he spent six glorious years in the sun. He came back with me to England, with a heart murmur and finally gave up trying to breathe there He is buried in one of my son’s garden and my youngest son who had known him all his life came down to perform the ceremony He was much loved and liked to sit to the table, talked constantly and was treasured as a very special cat. I have loved and had many cats – he made the most mark thus far. I feel your loss, if that doesn’t sound too histrionic. Cats are very special people and my existing cat – a cross-eyed Portugues moggy who also returned with me is known as Clarry, after Clarence the cross-eyed lion. She is a dear sweet soul who has learned to love my border terrier but no other dog.
Ah Sue, you’re another one who has travelled with her cats! Clarry and Piglet sound lucky to have you.
So very sorry for you, Isabel. The fact that he was with you for so long shows how much you loved each other. Thinking of you xx
I’m not a ‘cat’ person but I love my dog the way that you loved George. I absolutely know that an animal is a member of the family and deserves to be mourned and remembered with love. My heart goes out to you. I wish I could hug you better.
Thank you Val. I grew up as a ‘dog person’: I think they find you, whatever they are, if they are a bit special.
I’ve announced in the past that I’m not a cat person, but I don’t know if this is true anymore, but even if it were I don’t think this post is about cats. I think it’s about LOVE. It was a very moving post. You were lucky to have each other. RIP George.
Certainly about love. And I don’t consider myself a ‘cat person’. I don’t like them all: I liked George very much.
Oh no! You’ve got me blubbing. What a wonderful cat, and lovely for you to have had so many years with him. I’m so sorry for your loss. I’ve also never heard of a cat dying in his or her sleep, that must be the best way to go.
I had yet another wonderful cat who had airs above his station because he came from a stately home! He used to put his arms round my neck when I picked him up. He died in his sleep one night, under my husband’s desk.
Thank you Robin. No – I think we were very lucky having him at home. You hear tales of such dreadful waiting (those two days in Scotland could have turned out very differently).
Oh, lovely. Thank you for sharing George with us.