Gandalf 1990-2008

(My thanks to everyone for all the kind thoughts in the previous message.)

It's over.

I spent most of the day either in bed with Gandalf or in the office so I could be near him. I got him to give up trying to find a place to hide away by putting him on the warm waterbed and letting him burrow into a fold of the duvet. Around 10 p.m., I went to bed to keep him company and cuddled up near him, petting him from time to time. I wasn't sleepy, but I wanted to stay with him, so it was fortuitous that my order of Sue Barton books arrived today -- I read three of them while staying with Gandalf. I couldn't have coped with anything more demanding.

Slightly before midnight, his breathing got sort of hiccupy (Cheyne-Stokes?), and just after midnight he twitched a few times and stopped breathing. I thought he was gone then, but he twitched a couple more times, then stopped. I think it was peaceful and painless. I'm glad I didn't have to take him to the vet -- he hated riding in the car.

He was the third cat I'd owned (there were also two in my childhood), and the first male. He was the one with the most personality, though I don't know if that's at all gender-related.

I got him from the St. Paul Humane Society in August or September 1990, on the way home from a cat show where I'd failed to buy a non-show-quality Abyssinian cat to keep Pyewacket company. I'm thankful to fgherman (who was driving) and pameladean for indulging me in the Humane Society stop. My first choice had been a muted calico in white, grey, and cantelope colors, but that one shivered and mewed and didn't want to have anything to do with people. I next looked at a pair of grey kittens, brothers. If I hadn't had Pyewacket already, I might have come home with both of them, but since I lived in a smallish two-bedroom condo with eileenlufkin at the time, I managed to exercise some restraint. So the one who climbed up my back, curled around my neck, and purred into my hair came home with me and became Gandalf, also known as Gandalf Greycat and Goodgulf the Kitty Wizard.

I'd worried that he and Pyewacket wouldn't get along (they were both around eight weeks old), but a couple of hours after I brought them home and introduced them, I had to go out again. When I came back again, they were curled up together. I don't remember them sleeping together all that much, but they got along just fine, grooming each other and playing together.

Gandalf was a cat with many notions. One that stayed with him for most of his life was that feet and shoes were of overwhelming interest. He'd play with both, pretty much indiscriminately, though feet were better, because they played back.

In the house I lived in before this one, there was a door into the unfinished part of the attic. I had to go in there occasionally, and if I did, he became very interested in that door for three days. After that, he either gave up or forgot that that door actually went anywhere.

I don't know if he was insecure about his house (after all, he did have to cope with two moves) or what, but he hated having his house rearranged. "Rearrangement" could consistute packing, or cleaning, or moving furniture -- he hated it all indiscriminately. He didn't usually take it out on me, but he would swipe at anyone who was helping me. He got at least one good chomp on lydy that necessitated antibiotics.

Some time ago (eight months, maybe?), I was using the toilet and he was sitting in the sink licking at the water left in the basin. This struck me as vaguely unsanitary (though not as bad as Pyewacket's occasional habit of drinking out of the toilet bowl), and I turned the faucet on very low so he could drink directly from the faucet. This turned out to be a terrible miscalculation from my point of view. After that, water in a bowl was only a far second best; instead, he wanted have the tap water turned on for him several times a day, including (all too often) at 4:30 a.m. As he got weaker, he also wanted to be lifted up to the sink. If I didn't, he would jump up himself and then look meaningfully at me, but usually I indulged him. I'm just thankful that he never figured out how to bump his head against the faucet and turn the water on himself, or my water bill would have skyrocketed. About a month ago, he suddenly lost interest in water from the sink, and decided that his water bowl was just fine, as long as the water there was changed at least twice a day. I don't know what occasioned the change of attitude, but there's no arguing with a cat. Not this cat, at least.

He'd been getting skinnier and slower over the past couple of years, though mostly Dr. McMenomy seemed to think his general health was fine for a geriatric cat. On his last visit, though, he was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, and put on twice-daily Tapazole -- of which I had an almost-complete prescription left over from Pyewacket. The Tapazole seemed to help -- he showed more interest in food and I think he'd filled out a bit. I was going to take in him for follow-up bloodwork in the next day or two.

I don't know what he actually died of, but I'm glad it was relatively quick and peaceful. I suspect it was some sort of stroke, because he was fine (elderly, but fine) last night, and not-fine when I found him around 11 a.m. today.

I loved him dearly, and I'm going to miss him terribly. But he had a good life, and it certainly wasn't a premature demise, at eighteen and a bit.