Just a Glimpse

I am now at the point in mourning for Taylor where the heavy ache is gone. I still haven't removed all of her stuff from the house, but a good bit of it (medical stuff) has gone in the trash.

This is the stage where I expect to see her. And because I expect to see her, my mind puts her there for a second. I always make the same sound when I think I see her - an unsurprised "oh" - which is followed by a surprised "oh".

But the other cats have finally realized that Taylor is not coming back. I have rarely seen such relaxed cats. There was always a definite tension when Taylor walked into the room.

Lately, Blue has taken to flinging himself on me and this is quite a moment considering that he weighs at least twenty pounds. I have been able to pay more attention to Boris, who is very happy to have it. Dylan, Sophie, Brianna, they're all coming around, but I have noticed a weird dynamic between Sophie and Brianna. I think they're trying to sort out who's the Queen of the Hill. Sophie's quick but Brianna is so crazy that you can't anticipate her next move.

And me, I find myself with an unclenched neck. It's easy to take care of one sick old cat (Boris), especially is he's cooperative and good-natured.

They are pretty demanding when they first see me - food! Give us food!

Something which I myself would enjoy now.

Hm. Scrambled eggs. Now I need a place to hide away, oh I believe in scrambled eggs.

Accommodating Brianna

Brianna likes downstairs. I think it comes from her days when she was one of 87 cats in a house. No, not mine. She was taken from a house where an elderly lady had picked up two kittens and let them breed until she had 87 cats. The old lady sold the house to a contractor who was going to knock it down - then he saw all the cats.

Much to the guy's credit, he called a couple of rescue organizations.

I got Brianna.

Brianna has maybe three brain cells in her tiny head.

But she loves being downstairs. I stored old linens down there, old comforters I didn't like any more or were too shredded up to be decent, and Brianna made huge nests of them. Princess and the Pea nests.

After the flood, all that stuff got trucked out.

On the upper shelves, there were some old towels.

This evening when I went downstairs, I found one towel in the middle of the floor, folded into an 8" x 8" square. I think the furnace guy had used it to kneel on where he was here. On it sat Miss Brianna, in the middle of all that cold concrete floor.

So we went back to the shelves and found an empty lower shelf. I found four old towels and arranged them so that she wouldn't have to feel the cinder block on her back. I pet her for a long time. She wound round and round me until she tipped upside down on her new bed. Then she settled in purring and I knew I had done a good thing.

The Rearrangement

The rearrangement of cats on various totem poles has begun. Slowly. But it has started.

I'm worried that Brianna and Sophie aren't around much. I can always find Brianna in the basement and she's always happy to be found. Sophie is like a ghost cat. Here, then gone, not to be found in the interim.

Even Taylor seems at loose ends. I think she's busy terrorizing Brianna.

Dylan is a little extra-clingy. Blue has discovered the vacancy.

The one who initially had the hardest time was Boris. Every morning when I sat on the couch, it would be Dylan on my lap, then Gus to the left of me and Boris to the left of him. I've been giving Boris extra attention because he was so sadly lost. But now he's discovered the empty spot where Gussy used to sit and has come closer.

It continues.

And as for me, I still have not realized the full extent of how Gussy ran my life.

I've begun clearing out the many spaces, blankets, special places where Gussy ate to get away from the other cats, however briefly.

It reminds me of recovering from the death of a person who died after a long illness. You don't realize that you have pills, boxes of hypodermics, bottles of medicine, special pillows, special equipment, wash cloths, wipes, blankets that were used to make the patient rest a little easier. You're unsure of how exactly to pack it all away, but you know that you have to.

The New World Order

I knew Gus was the kingpin and lynch pin of the household, but I didn't truly understand how much.

This morning, the gang is at sixes and sevens.

When I woke up, Taylor was nowhere to be found. She had become a bed cat, centering herself in the exact center of the bed, no matter where I happened to be. Instead, Sophie was on the bed. Boris was in the Big Chair, still making room for Gus. Blue came out of hiding. Brianna showed up from the basement long enough to eat breakfast. And Dylan, of course, was still most emphatically Dylan.

I hadn't realized that Gus was such a talker. The house is oddly quiet. I am not being harried from place to place to do his bidding. It's more of a relief than I thought. And yet, I miss it.

As for me, I am castigating myself for doing it too soon, for making excuses about being at the end of my rope, at dreading the next week or two when I would do nothing but urge Gus to eat and drink, at following him around to wipe off the blood on his nose.

There is no perfect time for any of this.

And the little world that will reassemble itself in my house will be far from perfect, too.

The Cats Will Play

Things were in a sorry state for a little bit.

Taylor spent the entire weekend at the vet's. I could have flown to Paris, stayed at a nice little hotel and stuffed myself silly with macarons for what it cost, but, meh. I signed up for this.

I had many chirpy messages from Dr. Knightly. I love her. The cats love her. Every time she left me a message it went along the lines of "Taylor is such a love, but she still feels kind of low. Every time I open her cage, she gives that little chirp and comes to give me head butts."

I took in the fact that I don't think Taylor loves me this much. Possibly, I don't love her as much as Dr. Knightly does. I thought about this. When I went to pick up Taylor, I got all somber and said, "I don't do this lightly. In fact, I've only done it once before in my life [Katy and M the Perfect Roomie, who were made for each other]. But if you think Taylor would be better off with you, if you want her, I will let her go." I hastened to add that of course I would still be responsible for the bill Taylor'd just run up.

Dr. Knightly was a little overwhelmed. Even though I know she has to have heard this hundreds of times before. She said, "My husband would put me out with the recycling if I brought home another cat. I have six as it is." I said I understood. She excused herself for a moment, then came back.

Taylor was presented to me. Oh, she was not a happy camper. I imagine I wouldn't be either, if I'd gone through what she had. Twice.

I worried about her. Yesterday morning, I had to bring her out into the kitchen. She looked at me and wobbled back to bed. Last night, she found me. This morning, she wobbled out on her own. This evening, she met me at the door.

The last couple of evenings, I've spent some time playing with the cats. You should see Gus light up when he sees (through his cataract-y eyes) the feather-on-a-string toy come out. Dylan will kill himself chasing the thing. For his birthday, I think I'm going to give him a bunch of feathers for him to gut.

Brianna emerged from the basement to chase the laser. Blue is on to me. He just blinked up at me. I know you have a laser pointer in your hand, he blinked smugly.

I hear Sophie in the never-ending chase for the ball in a circle.

It'll be Spring soon. Time to wake up.

Every Day Is Caturday 1

Here's the status of my brood:

1. Gus is still with us, which amazes me. He's still getting thinner, though. When I was at BJs, I bought baby food called "Yummy Meals", with which Gus agrees whole-heartedly. He's gotten a lot louder in the mornings and sometimes his yelling sounds...pained. He's decided that he must have a morning cuddle and will yell at me until I pick him up and hold him against me.
2. Boris is not only a water-fiend now, but he expects to be brushed while he's up near the sink. Hm. Wonder how that happened? Could it be that I did it once? He's gotten smaller over the past year and his bedraggledness worried me. He still has a good appetite, still meows like a kitten, and still walks on the flat of his feet where most other cats walk on their tip-toes.
3. Katy's arthritis bothers her a lot. She has it in her front paws, in her shoulders and elbows. She is the most picked-on cat in my household. Sophie loves to stalk and chase her. Katy lives in MD's old room, either in the closet or on my desk. She is disappointed every time she walks in here and find me and not MD.
4. Taylor has made some strides over the last year. I can pick her up without being afraid that she'll tear my face off. She wants desperately to be loved. When I pick her up, her front paws immediately clutch around my neck, she presses her little body as hard as she can against me and meows in my ear. She's my enforcer. If I yell at a cat, Taylor jumps down from me and goes after that cat. Which makes me a lot more reluctant to yell at anyone.
5. Phoebe's fat gene is working overtime. She mostly lives on my bed, has no interest in anything but dry food, yet she's nearly spherical. She is beautiful, a mostly-grey tortie, and when I talk to her and say her name, her head always pops up and she makes a "Mrrr?" sound. I love that. She will also give me forehead a bath anytime she's near it.
6. Dylan is jealous of everybody who gets near me. He will launch himself to chase any cat that I've just been petting. He still comes to bed with me every night but lately his favorite spot is in my office, next to the electric piano.
7. Brianna. Maybe not quite so brainless. She has a perfect nest for herself in the basement, old comforters that she knocked down and shaped into one of the warmest places in the house. If she's not there, she's trying to snuggle up with Gus, who only wants to snuggle up with me.
8. Sophie lets me touch her! She lets me pet her! I can even pick her up and hold her (tightly) against me. She lives to chase Katy. Sophie now hops up on the arm of the sofa to get pet. Her fur is so soft, thick, and silky that I have to rub hard to get her to purr.
9. Blue is acquiring nicknames at last. Blue-ster. Brewster. The Bluesman. He is huge. If he wasn't such a coward, he could take down all the cats just by sitting on them. He loves to be picked up, but the cat has to weigh over twenty pounds. It takes some forethought to pick up Blue and cuddle him.

And yes, sometimes I have to count them. And yes, I frequently go through a roll-call when I'm talking to them. "Blue! Boris! Taylor! Taylor! Stop it!" And Blue and Boris looked mystified and Taylor chases whichever one is nearer.

Whatever Gus Wants, Gus Gets

I've kept it on the DL that Gus seems to be doing okay. More than okay. Pretty well, actually. I stopped giving him the vile vitamin mixture a month ago. I could probably pop another appetite stimulant pill into his mouth because he's getting thin again.

But I've learned some things about Gus.

When I wake up every morning, he starts howling at me. Actually, most of the cats mob me. Fine, they want food. I understand that. But Gus just howls and howls until I pick him up.

He settles himself into the crook of my arm, his back against my arm. I rub his furry belly. The howling stops the moment I pick him up and a deep, intense rumbling purr starts up. He nudges my hand. It's like the old lady in "The Producers" - hold me, touch me.

I do that and then put him down to feed the other cats.

After I settle myself on the couch, Gus is back in my lap for another morning cuddle. This one lasts longer. I always knew Gus was a sweetheart, but without his enmity with Butch in his way and his Mo-Daddy's shadow gone, Gus is a star.

In fact, I've been paying more attention to all of them. I go nose to nose with The Big Blue Cat while he perches on the cat tree and pet him into overstimulated ecstasy. I go in search of Briannadanna and find her curled up in old comforters she's knocked to the floor in the basement. She makes a large and comfy nest in these things. I get worried if I can't find her, but when she's missing, she's almost always in her nest.

And The Monkey, aka Taylor, the clingiest, most paranoid cat I've ever met. (Except the departed Queenie, who was simply psychopathic.) With a lot of loving, Monkey Face is not nearly as bad as she used to be. She will actually let other cats on the couch while she's up there. And when Dylan forsakes the bed, she hops into his spot, cuddled under the blankets with me.

I love them more than I knew.