Gypsy T Cat
I grew up with cats, my parents had cats before I was born and after I left home, therefore I grew up with the same admiration for moggies.

Gypsy (aka Ahhh Gerroff You Little Git) was my first own cat when I left home. I got him from an old lady who was being moved in to a hospice and was having trouble rehoming him. He was old, grumpy, stuck in his ways, spoilt and had a purr that sounded like Darth Vader with asthma (bad enough that one evening the neighbours phoned me to tell me Gypsy was eating their cats food and he seemed to have some breathing problems).

When Gypsy first moved in with me, we initially had some leadership issues. He thought he was leader of the pride, I thought I was. I wouldn't say he was an evil cat, but he would attack any girlfriends if they were being snuggly with me, rubbed himself against erotically against ladies shoes, attacked bare feet & other cats and I even saw him chase a Muntjac deer out of my back garden.

Gypsy always slept on my bed. I tried to stop him, but he started destroying the doors of the rented flat I was in. First the paint work then the woodwork. This had to end, I had to take charge of him.

It all culminated one night when I was lying bed trying to sleep. Gypsy was in his normal spot on the bed, my left knee. He did the padding thing that most cats do, that sort of gentle massage with claws. But this night he seemed to go on and on. I switched on the light. There was Gypsy, usual spot, padding away but this time he had his little pink penis sticking out and was thrusting it against my knee.

Yelling, I shot out of bed. Gypsy legged it out of the bedroom and in to the front room. I threw on my terry towel dressing gown and went after him. As I rounded the corner I saw him standing on the sofa, staring at me, daring me. I walked toward him and he hissed and growled. I told him the time had come for him to learn who was master. As I got to within about 2 foot of him, he launched.

The next thing I knew I had a hissing, growling cat attached the front of my dressing gown, 6 inches under my nose. He was like a mad, rabid version of those stick on Garfields you used to see on car windows, the claws of all four paws gripping the cloth, eyes staring in to mine and the smell of his rancid cat breath invading my nostrils.

I grabbed him, threw him back on to the sofa and pinned him down. Then I started to roughly mess up his fur, which most cats hate (I couldn't actually do anything really harmful to him). He purred. He purred like he'd never purred before. And from that moment, we never had issues again. Whilst other cats still received the beatings of their lives and visiting lady friends would have to keep their shoes out of his grasp, he didn't attack humans and he knew he wasn't boss anymore. I'd stood up to him and won.

When I got my second rescue cat (Tig), she was pregnant. Gypsy was great with her, but as soon as the kittens were born, he left home. He moved in with an old couple a few doors down from me. They used to give him Weetabix for breakfast, chicken for dinner and salmon for tea. I wasn't overly happy that he had moved on, but I knew he was being fed well and they could spend a lot of time with him, being retired. What I didn't know was that they couldn't afford to pay any vet bills.

I didn't see Gypsy for about two months. Then one evening as I was putting the bin out, I saw him. He had changed from a rough, bruiser cat to a skinny, ill looking bag of bones. I picked him up and he purred. His breath was more rancid than usual. I catnapped him back from the neighbours and took him to the vet the very next day. He had a very seriously infected abscess in his mouth. His kidneys were shutting down (all the good food the neighbours were giving him didn't help). He had to be put down.

I will never forget the emotions of that day. Having to tell the old couple he was dead. Having to bury him. Blaming myself for letting him go and not keeping an eye on him. Wanting to blame them for his death.

This cat had attacked me, my parents, girlfriends and had even molested my left knee, but he was still the best cat I ever had (even though I love my current bunch dearly).

Sorry for length and sad ending, but that really was cathartic!


I've plenty of 'my cats' or 'when I lived in Africa' animal stories, so I'll pick a funny one next time!

Ta

Smurf.
(Big Smurf Brush me daddy-O, Thu 24 Apr 2008, 16:04, Reply)