I lost a close friend of the four-legged type two weeks ago. It was Jerry, who was nineteen and a half years old – a very senior cat. Nevertheless, it was difficult for me to say good-bye to him. He came into our lives in 2002, along with his identical brother Ben, who died six years ago.
Despite being an indoor cat, Jerry had many escapades, including the time he lapped up a lot of turkey grease, resulting in undesirable consequences for him and me alike (read about it here). For the most part, though, he was a sweet-natured cat who accepted and gave affection (as much as any cat can).
For some unknown reason, he imprinted on me from the time he was a kitty, and I believe he thought I was his mama. He would get upset when I left the house. I am told that he would either sit just inside the front door meowing or pace about the house until I returned. Of course, when I would return there would be no dog-like show of affection. Rather, he would simply calm down and go take a nap.
Jerry had many OCD-like tendencies and was truly wedded to routine. From the time he came into our home, he loved to jump into my lap in the evening while I was watching television. (He didn’t have a favorite show, but would often perk up if an animal showed up on screen.) For the past few years, I have done the bulk of my TV-watching while seated in an Ikea lounge chair, with my legs up on the matching foot rest.
At some point most evenings, Jerry would walk into the room and look up toward my lap. However, there was only one direction of approach that would work for him and only one side of the chair that was appropriate for his leap. If he moved in from an unaccustomed direction or was on the “wrong” side of the chair, he would circle the chair, and sometimes the nearby coffee table, until his approach and the side of the chair aligned with his idea of how to get into my lap.
He had a similar routine with his food bowl. When I would give him fresh food, he would approach the bowl on the floor directly. But if he came back later, he would circle behind his water bowl and food bowl, yet end up eating in then same direction anyway. From time to time, this made a mess, but it was endearing.
In addition to the turkey grease incident, there was another legendary happening that must be documented and commemorated now. When Jerry was in his active years, he loved to play string. Anything skittering along the floor would get his attention, and a piece of string pulled in front of him was irresistible. To give him and his brother exercise, and to amuse me, I would often get a piece of string about four feet long and simply walk around the house trailing it behind me. Ben and Jerry would go nuts, attacking the string time after time, until they (or I) tired of the game.
One time, I foolishly left the string on the floor, and a few minutes later turned around to see Jerry eating it. By that time, he was down to the last few inches, and I watched the tail end slither down his throat.
“You stupid, stupid cat!” I cried, while saying to myself, “You stupid, stupid man!”
Now what? He had swallowed four feet of string. I imagined it wrapping around his internal organs and causing a painful demise. We called the vet and searched for advice online. The first step was to see if he could naturally expel the string with the help of some mineral oil. Thus, we overfed him in the hours that followed with canned food to which we added a healthy amount of the oil. Then we waited. That evening nothing happened.
In the morning, I got up first and headed downstairs. Jerry was still alive and did not seem to be distressed. Then I saw it – an inch of string sticking out of his anus! I excitedly woke up Barbara and gave her the news. We hatched a plan immediately to distract him with food and to try to remove the string while he was eating.
Now, Barbara didn’t realize how long the string was. She thought it was just a short piece, although I don’t know how she got that impression.
We went downstairs and locked up Ben, who typically would try to muscle out Jerry when they were fed together. This was going to be Jerry’s show. And Jerry seemed none the wiser that a piece of string was sticking out of his butt.
While Barbara opened a can of Friskies, I put on some latex gloves so that I could perform the planned delicate operation in a sanitary manner. The moment of truth arrived. Barbara put the bowl on the feeding mat. Jerry’s head went straight into the bowl, as he started gulping down the food. And I deftly moved in, grabbed the end of the string and started pulling … and pulling … and pulling. There were no obstructions and Jerry was oblivious in his feeding frenzy.
Barbara gasped, “Oh my god! I didn’t know it was so long.”
The pulling finally concluded, and I found myself holding a four-foot length of string that had been inside Jerry overnight and which had turned from white to brown. We were overjoyed. The mineral oil had worked! His internal organs were not wrapped. An expensive veterinary surgery was not going to be required. Catastrophe averted.
You better believe that from that point forward, the stupid human got a lot smarter about putting away the string.