George 1993 (?) - 24 February 2006

George
Clueless Wonder
1993? – 24 February 2006


I was going to try and do a bit of an obituary, but it just won’t come together. When I do get a sentence or two to read just the way I want, I end up busting into tears all over again. If I keep that up I’ll just end up short-circuiting the goddamned keyboard.

Some random thoughts:

His full name was “George of the Jungle” because he was found on the streets of West Philly when he was about a year old. Even then he was a big goof. He was emaciated, and had a severe upper-respiratory infection and a fine case of worms, but he was an utter spazoid. How he survived on his own for so long is anybody’s guess. My guess is that he was abandoned by a college student in the spring, and managed to scrap his way through until the fall semester started up.

He came into my life when a fellow vet student rescued him off the streets. I gave him to my mom, and then inherited him when she died. My second-best friend in the entire world died Friday, and so did a piece of my mother.

When he was young, his favorite toy was a ping-pong ball. He’d chase the damned thing through my mom’s house for hours until it lodged under something, and then he’d spend another hour trying to extricate it. I’d spend hours watching him do it. I’m not sure which of us was more pathetic.

Two of our remaining three cats don’t seem to have noticed that anything is different. LGS has been sticking closer to me, and has kicked LBS out of her accustomed sleeping spot next to me at night. I don’t think that LGS actually misses George, but she’s noticed something is different, and she’s a bit unsettled.

I had a postmortem done on George. This seems to upset the people who I’ve confided this to, so I’m not telling people about it any more. The postmortem confirmed that on top of all his other problems (heart, kidneys, inflammatory bowel) he also had pancreatic cancer. Life expectancy from time of diagnosis of pancreatic is usually less than three months. I was lucky to have been able to manage this medically for as long as I did, but most of the credit goes to George. For a goofus, he had unsuspected veins of feline fortitude running through his being.

He started to decline the week before, but he’d always bounced back, and I left on a two-day business trip optimistic that I’d come home to a slow but perky cat. My plane was delayed, and I arrive home 10:30 Friday night to find George in a miserable state. Math Man had done a wonderful job of caring for him while I was gone (four pills in the morning, seven pills at night, two liquid medications on top of all the pills, and subcutaneous fluid therapy in addition to all that). I’m not sure any other cat I know would have tolerated such a regimen, but George did, and for a while it worked. Friday night I knew that the time for such measures was ended.

We ended up at the vet ‘s at 11:00 that evening. The veterinarian who had been attending George for most of his final months made a special trip back into the clinic for this last visit. We were all nearly in tears after. George died on my lap, looking as though he had fallen asleep. I stayed with him for a while after. When his ears started to feel cool I was finally able to turn my back and walk out the door. I wish now I’d looked back.

The vet made an impression of George’s paw-print for me in a sculpting plastic that could be baked to permanent hardness. Using this woman as a yardstick, I do not believe I’d have measured up to acceptable standards had I gone into private practice. I need to find an appropriate thank-you gift for her.

I’ve taken all but the cardiac medications to the animal shelter I work at. There was a fair amount left over, and much is stuff we use on a regular basis. I’m returning the rest to the veterinary clinic for them to use for low-income clients. I haven’t been able to bring myself to take this stuff back to the clinic though.

I’m having George cremated, with the ashes to be returned to me. It’s the first time I’ve had the ashes returned for any pet I’ve ever owned. When I’m ready, when the weather’s warmer, when I’ve worked up my courage, I’ll take them to the cemetery where Mom is. I’ll have to sneak to do it though. The cemetery where my parents purchased funeral plots is one of those all-flat places. No headstones, no vases, no memorials of any kind that you can’t mow over. The place is beautifully kept, but sterile, and I’ve never taken any comfort in visiting there. The turf is kept green and plastic looking, and I figure I should be able to roll a piece of it back when no one is looking. I’ll dig a small hole over my mother’s grave for George’s remains, then roll the turf back so the area looks undisturbed. It’s probably a stupid plan, but it gives me some comfort to think about doing it. I think my mom would have liked it. When she was alive she hated this cemetery, and she would have gotten a kick out of me finding some small way to screw them over.

It seems almost obligatory in any memorial to mention that in lieu of flowers a donation can be made to George’s favorite charity. It’s rather presumptuous to do so though, especially since George didn’t have a favorite charity. Still, I’ve asked the few people who have asked me if they can do anything that it would be nice if they could give a small donation in Clueless Wonder’s name to Cat Tales, Inc., the shelter I volunteer for. It seems appropriate, since George of the Jungle was a rescue kitty. In a continuation of this presumptiveness, their address is: Cat Tales, Inc.
Animal Rescue
P.O. Box 165
Warminster, PA 18974

God, I miss him.