Gypsy: May, 2001 - November, 2019
This is the first blog I am writing in many, many years from
my home, when I am not getting sidetracked by little fuzzy paws pulling at my
sleeve as I type, asking me to stop and play with them; I am not getting pitter-patter
feet running across my keyboard, nor kitty faces rubbing against my laptop lid,
in a tireless effort to make it close. This is because for the first time in 21
years I am in my house, completely catless.
Our last kitty, Gypsy, went away to meet his two brothers
over the rainbow bridge this past week. He was 9 days short of being exactly 18
and a half years. The pain of missing him is only surpassed by our regret of
not being able to be there when he passed. Life wanted it other ways … But this
is not about us … It’s really about him.
Gypsy was an answer
to a long, secret wish I had as a 20 some year old. Before I moved to the Bible-belt
South, I never knew such hatred towards black cats. I was amazed every fall,
around Halloween, how people found black cats mutilated and strangled, and drowned
in bags in the river. Humanity, or lack thereof, made me sick. Although at the
time I was a happy mommy of two gorgeous cats, I said to myself: “one day, I
want to have a black cat! I want to love him and raise him and turn him into
the most amazing, kind, gorgeous kitty so I can show all these freaks that
black cats are awesome.” No sooner did I utter this wish than in two or
three-week’s time, we started hearing this piercing meow under our house,
coming from the crawlspace. We had a stray cat that usually came and went, and
we were thinking, OK, maybe it’s in heat and she’ll stop once it’s all over.
But the meow would not stop. A day became two. A night became three, and the meow
continued.
One warm late May afternoon, I opened the door to the
crawlspace to let the poor creature out, weary from several sleepless nights
where it had kept me awake with the incessant meow-and-meow-and-meow. I was figuring
it must be a huge kitty, probably hungry from days of being trapped and dying
to get out. When I opened the door, the meow kept getting closer to me, so I
knew the kitty found its way to the opening. Instead of a huge kitty, to match
the loud meow, I saw this tiny fuzzball, easily under a pound, covered in cobwebs,
one eye half closed, I thought, or just dirty with under-the-house muck, big
blue eyes, and completely black walking towards me, slipping and sliding on the
rotten beams we stored in the crawlspace at the time. His voice was piercing. I
had never heard such a loud meow in any size of a cat, but especially in a cat
small enough to fit my palm! Since the minute we made eye contact, he did not
want to lose my sight! He had the most expressive face and just begged and
begged for help and comfort.
I knew I had to keep him! I was absolutely smitten, and my
prayer of an all-black cat was right then and there answered. I took him to the
vet who thought I wanted to put him up for adoption, having just found him under
the house. I was insulted. How can someone, anyone, put this kitty up for adoption?!
Just look at him: eyes blue as the skies, hungry, lonely, skinny as a rail, tiny,
lonely, and all he wants is some food and love. Who can put him back out there
into the world with no one to his name?! He became mine, or rather I became his
the first moment we locked eyes. I asked the vet to check him out, before I
would bring him to my other cats, to ensure he is not carrying some odd
disease. He was not. Other than being severely dehydrated and hungry, he was
100% healthy. The doctor called him “a woolly worm” and he said: “This cat has
incredibly strong lungs, and that is a sure sign that he will have a long and
healthy life.”
We named him Gypsy, as my mom who was then visiting suggested
“kindly”. The name fit: he was independent, dark, stubborn as they come, and with
no regard to anyone’s wishes but his own. He was then and he remained for the
rest of his life, the baby. Me-me-me …
all the way.
As a young cat, he got himself into all sorts of troubles.
He chewed more wires than any other cat I had. He chewed my shoes like a dog.
He was 100% nocturnal. When the sun would go down, that’s when he was wide
awake and ready to play, bite your toes, lick your face, knock pictures off the
walls in your bedroom, and pull your hair. He was relentless. No matter how
much he got sprayed with water, he continued his shenanigans for years. He was
fearless of getting in trouble. I always joked that he knew that if I saved his
life, there is nothing that I could ever do to hurt him, so he was not really ever scared of any consequences. I think
he was maybe 8 or 9 when I ever noticed any sign of him slowing down and
maturing just a tad … He was always playful, curious and loud. With all that
said, he was also the most gentle cat you ever met: he literally had no idea
how to hurt anyone, but especially humans. He trusted humans more than any
other cat I knew. He never bit or scratched maliciously. Ever. He was trusting
and gentle.
People will talk about cats that want to escape and want to
be outside more than they want to be inside. The number one prerequisite for
being my cat is that you are going to be a 100% inside cat! No arguments! I
cannot risk them being eaten by some beast, or run over by cars. Gypsy never
had any interest whatsoever to ever be outside. He was completely content in
the house, always in the humans’ business, especially mine. He had a nervous
breakdown when I was behind any closed door – he was my shadow, constantly. He
wanted to be where I was and have me in his full sight. In his old days, he
would pick the most strategic point in the room so he can watch me no matter
where I was headed from just one spot. His big yellow eyes (they turned from
blue to yellow when he matured) would follow me around like laser beams. He
loved to nap with me, and sit with me as I typed on my laptop. He slept under
my desk, when I worked … His eyes were intelligent and intent in everything that had to do with me. We had a bonding like I never had with any other being. This was our life for 18 years. We read together,
napped together, put up the Christmas tree together, ate lunch at the kitchen
island together …
Gypsy was the only one of our cats that traveled to Utah,
and then made the trip back to the North Carolina woods where he was born. He
came back across the country as a 16 and a half old cat, and he did superbly
during that journey: sleeping all day in his carrier in the back seat of my Corolla,
and sleeping at night in our camper, when we’d camp at KOAs across The Land. He
never complained. He always felt safe with us, and I hope, always loved. He
was.
In the two years that we have been back in NC, he has slowed
down a lot. He has outlived all the cats and dogs in our families and extended network of friends. But, life took its toll and his kidney disease advanced, and he started crying incessantly
again, just like when he was a kitten. His piercing meow could wake up the
dead, really! You’d never know that a creature weighing only 7 pounds (or not
even one when he was a kitten) could be so loud. But that voice is what saved
his life.
His big voice, bright eyes, curious nature, soft as silk
coat, beautiful, picture-perfect profile will stay with us forever … He was in truth my dreamed-about, picture-perfect black cat, just like I wished all those years ago. And he did show the world that a black cat can be gentle and kind and loving and sweet, as well as mischievous and naughty ...
I am not sure how I can now move on without any kitties in
the house. I really don’t know how to function with no bowls to clean, no stop in
the litter aisle at the store, no special blankets around the house … no one to
snuggle with when I nap in the afternoon, no purring as I fall asleep … Gypsy
was my go-to kitty for all the naps I have had in the past 18 years. Fero
almost never slept! And Little Kitty was way too independent to be anyone’s cat
… But Gypsy was my mirror. My soul-mate, the answer to my prayer. Just like I wanted
him before he ever happened under my house, I want him now, and will want him
always …
Life, of course, is never endless … He was called to the
other side to maybe make other souls as happy as he’s made us.
We’ll miss you more than you know, little guy. We’ll mourn
and ache for you for a long, long time, and we pray that you’ll forgive us one
day for not holding your paw when you crossed that bridge. We were, and I know
you knew – but just not in person. Sleep well, and wander free – enchant other
worlds as you so plentifully did ours.
With a bleeding, aching heart, your momma loves you, and Mr.
Aa., too …
