Dear Gimmie is Gone (part 1 of 2)

By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
sallies@juno.com

Writer’s block: when you’re laughing out loud at a desktop picture of your favorite little boy, while trying to eulogize a dear friend whose time was up long ago.

It’s certainly what you’d call a mood swing, between humor and sadness.

Last week, Jean called from her home in Virginia, snuffling with that hollow sound that heralds bad news: “We had to put Gim down.”

Gim was one of Jean’s first companions out in the big wide world of after-college and no-longer-very-welcome-at-home.

If we’d known what a fine young woman Jean would turn into, we might have cut her a little slack, but all we could think of was what it would cost to rent a backhoe and exhume her domestic landfill (a.k.a. bedroom) into a dumpster.

She’d worked for the U.S. Forest Service as a volunteer about 1990, walking trails in the George Washington National Forest in the stunningly beautiful Shenandoah Valley. On the lookout for sloughed-off paths or trees down, she’d either clear a cluttered trail or make a note when it was more than she could handle alone.

She was “between jobs,” and all they compensated her was a place to stay in one of the lodges on the property. But it turned into a terrific, if abbreviated, career.

No jobs were available, or at least not on the entry level, but she stayed cheerful and eventually someone in the service discovered that she could write, and knew her way around a computer. They hired her, and she found herself a small apartment in Harrisonburg, Va.

While she made friends quickly - one we hoped would be more than just a friend - she was lonely, and called one evening to inform us she’d gone to the shelter to get a kitten. (Now, she’ll be all over me if I get the wrong cat in the wrong part of the story, so you’d better stand behind me, out of harm’s way.)

Anyhow, hoping I’m right, Chica, “little girl,” which turned out to be a mistake, came to live with her, costing her fragile budget a pet-deposit which she did get back much later. Oh, and spaying, which she didn’t.

Chica matured into a huge long-haired, big bellied, dark gray tabby cat and was good company for Jean after a long day in the FS office. And as everyone knows, it’s more humane to get a pet for a pet for the same reason you wanted one in the first place.

“Hi, Mom. Guess what? I got another cat. Yeah, I know, but Chica was lonely here all day by herself, and this kitty teases her and keeps her in a state of pandemonium.”

(She knew this - how? By the way the place was trashed when she got home?)

“It’ll keep her young. He’s really a beauty, the little one, so small, but he’s got the most gigantic tail I’ve ever seen on a cat. Golden red, the whole cat, I mean, not just his tail. Quick as lightening. He doesn’t like being picked up and he’s not a lap cat, but they both sleep with me, and it’s so nice to hear them purring…. ‘Gim’? I don’t know. Yes, I named him, but I don’t know why that name.”

Gim grew up to become one of the most magnificent cats I’ve ever known. He was agile and strong, got to the fridge-top with two effortless bounds long before he was full grown. Jean kept his food there so he had at least a chance to eat. Putting their food together on the floor would soon have exploded Chica and starved Gim.

He was quick, generally healthy, and did I mention his tail? Longer than he was, and at least four inches across when he was holding it up to brag. He walked around with that flag held high, and when he was sure someone was watching, let the top three inches just trail over the slightest bit, slowly undulating overhead.

Chica seldom bothered to crack an eyelid to see this one-cat parade. They could hardly have been more different from each other.

I appreciated Jean’s wanting a cat - we had one most of the years the kids were still at home. Either a cat or a dog, while we’d really like to have one again, just makes things too complicated at our stage of life. I start thinking “litter box,” “ear mites,” “expensive vaccinations,” and soon the urge fades.

And little did we even know just how complicated pet-ownership gets. “You know where those cats are going to wind up, don’t you?” Dave growled.

“No, absolutely no,” I answered, “We’re having no more cats in this house, and I don’t want them going after our birds, but I suppose, since they’re here, I suppose if we had to….”

Well, it didn’t happen that time, when we were on the premises, but later in his life, Gim and Chica both did move in. Before we break this story, I’ll move the scene to California.

Jean wanted to see a bit more of the world, so she applied for and got an assignment to the Sierra National Forest where she climbed about 5,000 feet for the day’s work. Her father, who had fairly recently retired, was glad to help her drive, so we intercepted her on I-40 somewhere near Chattanooga.

While Dave was wedging himself into the four cubic feet reserved for him, the doors were open and the breeze swept through the car. The cats were in their cage, looking distraught. Dave was finally in place, doors were slammed, and I headed back south while they continued west.

And from the time those doors were closed until they mercifully swung open for a rest stop, Dave says that car had the most pungent, vile odor he had ever experienced in his life. It was days before he felt like he had scrubbed it away.

Next time, Gim and Chica are mortal after all….