The last four-legged member of the Davidson troupe is gone. Gilmore has taken his last breath. Acute renal failure took him at 13.
Gilmore arrived in the Davidson Shelter for Wayward Animals
in the oddest of ways. While walking the runway one sunny day, Ginger heard
what she believed to be a stressed baby bird. Slowly triangulating to the sound
she stumbled upon a slimy little fur ball out of its element.
Barely a few weeks old, square in the middle of the runway,
his attendance to this place would have been inexplicable were it not for another
four-legged critter named Bair; our black lab, of loveable fame, was prone to
grabbing baby things and carrying them in his mouth without damage. It was the
only logical explanation. Yet, it was also an unnecessary explanation. The
kitten didn’t care how it got there. He wanted, and needed, care or he was
going to die.
I was away flying when I received Ginger’s message saying she
had found “something.” During a few spare minutes between flights I called to
see what it was. To be clear, when she told me I was not excited. We already
had three dogs and a cat living in a thousand square foot home.
However, Ginger explained it was so young it couldn’t eat
solid food and given its extremely young age it probably would not survive
without perfect care. That’s all I learned before my free time expired. When I
landed again I called for an update.
Ginger had been online, found the chemical/nutrient
composition of cat’s milk and put her mind to work finding those items.
Unsurprisingly, she had gone ahead and home-brewed a batch. All she needed was
a way to get it down his throat. With that, my time was up again. One final leg
and I would be home.
A few hours later, on my way to the house, I pulled into a
drug store and bought a dropper. Arriving home with this item qualified me as a
temporary hero. It was exactly what Ginger needed. Before I could sit down the
little thing was taking excited swigs of Ginger’s snake oil. A concoction our
vet would later marvel over.
A day or two later one of us took a photo we’d eventually refer back to a hundred times or more. Despite having grown significantly since Ginger found him, the little kitten could still fit in a shoe. Walking, however, that was a problem.
When the little guy had enough strength to be active he
pulled himself along with his front legs. Worried he would never be able to
walk, due to early separation from his mother, we contacted our vet again. The
news we received was that it wasn’t that odd and he might very well develop
normally if he continued to eat GSO. Before long, he was running around the way
kittens do.
Feeling he was going to survive, and that there was no room
at the inn, we began looking for someone who might want him. The task would not
be easy. There were not many people we would trust to give him proper care.
Thankfully, some good friends stepped up and that weight left our minds. There
was, however, another growing problem. Every hour he spent with us made it more
difficult to give him away.
A week later we told our friends we couldn’t let him go. This presented a new problem.
At five animals the household was over capacity and the
newest addition struggled to fit in. Our cat, “Meatball,” easily one of the
chilliest cats to ever exist, was not happy. Gilmore was a different beast.
Uncivilized and oozing with sarcasm, he drove Meatball crazy. Nevertheless, Meatball
was sick and that problem soon, and sadly, rectified itself. A few months
later, with the original Davidson feline gone. Gilmore, as we had named him, eagerly
filled the spot.
Right then, for the briefest of time, everyone was well. We’d take evening walks and all four of them would follow. Every member of the gang knew their place in the world and brought seemingly endless amounts of joy, and vet bills, into our lives. Gilmore was the joker.
When you spoke to him he’d always talk back. If you scolded
him you received the attitude of a teenager. When you said hello he’d make a
little squeak, run somewhere, and flop on his side hoping you would pick him up.
If you asked him random questions, “How you doin’ little dude?” he respond with
a sound appropriate for the query. “That cat” was so vocal we came up with
things to say to him just to hear his response. He was never-ending
entertainment on four legs.
Much of this came from something we learned raising Meatball.
When Gilmore was young we picked him up hundreds of times a day. If we walked
by him we’d grab him, turn him over, upside down, grab and lightly squeeze his
paws. This conditioned him for human interaction and came with a useful bonus. When
your cat is easily handled veterinarians love them, and in turn they get better
care.
Later in life Gilmore realized it was more fun if he pretended he didn’t want you to grab him. Ginger would tell him she was going to scoop him and he’d run – far enough away to make her run but also to a spot she could easily reach down and lift him into her arms. Once there he’d purr with every stroke.
Looking back, perhaps the best part about him was that he
was “my cat” when he was good and “your cat (Ginger’s)” when he wasn’t. Somehow,
though, we both claimed and disowned him multiple times a day. Odd how that
works. Maybe it had something to do with the litter box or whose turn it was to
give him insulin injections.
In truth, it’s amazing Gilmore made the age of thirteen. Seven
or eight years into his life he began to get cranky, have random problems, and
cause us infinite issues. Long story short, he had kidney stones.
One surgery later, and his post-op bloodwork completed, we learned he would be on insulin the remainder of his life. With that, Ginger jumped into action again, this time training Gilmore to readily accept the shots. The biggest headache was the insulin and needles.
There were times it felt as though all we did was make
needles for Gilmore. Other days were spent finding insulin and rock bottom
prices. Then there were the days we expended great efforts to glue glucose
meters to him – yes, that’s a thing. Whatever he needed, we made sure the
little joker received the best of care.
Unfortunately, there comes a time all the effort isn’t
enough; nature wins out.
When I learned Gilmore’s kidneys were done, I was days away from home. A week earlier Ginger and I had noticed him lying around more than usual and not eating. After a short discussion, we made him an appointment with a vet hoping it would be something solvable. It wasn’t. Gilmore was experiencing acute renal failure.
That night, as I sat him my hotel room, Ginger told me the
news and we made a decision. The experience of the last few years made the
conversation much easier than it should be. For one brief moment years earlier,
our home sheltered five cherished animals. Since then, as they say, it had been
the long goodbye; one of them leaving us for good, every other year or two,
until the only one remaining was the cat named in honor of the world’s fastest
lion.
Everyone who really knows us knows we love dogs. However, anyone
one can love a dog because they love you. Cats are a different story.
For a person to develop any kind of relationship with a cat
a person must be willing and able to pay attention to the animal, listen for
clues to its mental state, observe its body language, consider its age, understand
how food affects it, and consider every possible action and sound that could
possibly strengthen the bond between human and animal. This is why so many
folks describe cats as “assholes.” They’re just like humans. All successful
pairings are the outcome of hard work and understanding.
The downside to all this effort is what awaits you if the
animal “goes” first. With all the effort put into a cat, there are seemingly
endless, unique, little, exchanges that come to be. Those small things, the ways
you interacted with each other, serve as never ending moments of melancholy
when you’re the last one standing. Where once there were the unexpected treasures
of life, there are pockets of space wherein those things will never again
occur.
Raised with dogs, Gilmore displayed many dog like habits. Whenever
you came through the door he was there. Ginger would lay in bed, call his name,
and he’d come running to lie on her chest or at her feet for the night. When I
sat in any chair, he’d be on my lap within fifteen seconds, no matter where or
what time of day it was. Now I just sit.
Gilmore has been gone for almost two months now. I wrote
this shortly after the little shithead pulled his final joke on us and left us
behind. He was such a part of our lives I still sometimes see him at the door
when I come home; whenever the curtains hang away from a window I expect to
find him behind them enjoying the sun. Today I sat in my chair and leaned back
to make room for him. Bummer.
Losing this little guy was different. When we lost animals
before Gilmore, we always had others to take care of. Today our house is empty.
The energy his life brought to our home was certainly underestimated. Yet, none
can replace him.
He is missed.
Meatball, Sky, Ace, Bair, and Gilmore