Gooseberry

Oct 14, 2024

An era, a huge part of my life just died. Since 1994 I have worked with feral cats performing TNR and re-homing cats and kittens when I could. Gooseberry came to me as the offspring of a feral mother I’d trapped. He was one of nine kittens born that year. I found homes for five of them and kept four, including Gooseberry. He and his brothers filled my heart with joy at a very low time in my life.

It is hard now to think of anything except his last days, but I do remember the first few days for my little Trucker. That was his first, temporary name. I remember the day he bounded out of the nesting box, the first of his litter to do so. And, oh so quickly, he was trucking around the room as confident as can be. While the other kittens wrestled with each other though, he chose to climb up on my lap, tuck his head under my chin and purr. I should have known then he would be one of the group who would stay.

As they grew, Trucker was also the first kitten to get to the top of the baby gate at the door of the kitten room. He toppled back into the room as soon as Blizzard, my American Eskimo dog made an appearance. Not long after that they learned to tolerate each other. Trucker actually believed he’d buffaloed Blizzard.

Soon the kittens grew into their real names, Mulberry Spot, B.W. Huckleberry, Strawberry and Gooseberry (his fur the color of ripe gooseberries). At some point Gooseberry adopted my older cat, Mewdy Blue, as his hero, much to the consternation of the independent Mewdy Blue.

For a few years I entered Gooseberry in local cat shows but eventually it became obvious he didn’t like the spotlight. He earned many ribbons, but he constantly panted while at the show. In the future that would be my cue that he was stressed about something.

Gooseberry was a talker, much like a Siamese cat. He’d sit on the back of my recliner and we’d have entire conversations about his day. It was the same any time we’d visit the veterinarian. He’d wander around the exam room as we waited, talking and talking about the unfairness of life. Even as the veterinarian tried to listen to his chest sounds he’d continue talking.

After Mewdy Blue died, Gooseberry became my little Trucker again. Any time I sat at my desk, he’d jump up and tuck his head under my chin. Eventually the ritual changed and he rested on my chest so I had to hold him in my arms. It made working on my computer difficult, if not impossible.

Then his brothers died, one by one, sadly leaving the house too quiet. And in the last few months Gooseberry faded. His kidneys were failing, and he developed several mast cell tumors on his hip. Over the years he had dealt with many other maladies as well, although we’d kept them under control with medications. He didn’t look like a sick, old cat, but he did act like one.

He chose a box I was going to fill with donations for Goodwill and made it into his bed. He wouldn’t come out to eat or drink so I put his bowls in front of the box. Then I was worried about his litter box habits, so I moved his close to his bed-box. Finally, he stopped eating or drinking completely. I knew what that meant but didn’t want to face it.

I had slept downstairs on my recliner for at least five days to be closer to him and almost hoped he’d just fall asleep and not wake up. I couldn’t face the last trip we were going to take to his veterinarian. My heart was slowly ripping to pieces, at least the part of my heart that was left after all the other losses. The emotional pain was, is, excruciating.

On his last day I planned. I knew I couldn’t make him suffer any longer, just so I could keep him close to me. I tried to hold him close, but he didn’t want that anymore. The night before he didn’t even come to sleep with me on the recliner. He no longer wanted to leave his bed-box. I don’t know why it occurred to me, but I wondered if I still had a CD of Jonathon Livingston Seagull. It always used to calm me when I needed it. Sure enough, it was still in my collection. So, I gathered it, some catnip and some liquid treat tube in my bag. Then I put a cat bed in his carrier and spray it lightly with Feliway before putting him in.

At the clinic, I asked if they had a CD player. They did not, but the technician did find the album on some app on her phone and played it the whole time we were there. This time when they asked to take him “to the back room” I said no. I preferred they do everything in the exam room so I could be with him as long as possible. They gave me time to spend alone with him, but I knew it would never be enough.

The veterinarian came in then, and slowly administered a sedative. As the song “Lonely Looking Sky” played I hear “Sleep, we sleep” while his body relaxed. Already I felt I’d lost him, though I knew he was only sleeping at that point. The rest, well, I’m sure most of you have been through it so I don’t need to tell you. Only that the staff was supportive as I tore myself from his body and left the building.

I don’t even remember my drive home, but am sure God was with me because I arrived safely. That was October 1^st. I still haven’t picked up his bed-box. I can’t. I haven’t even picked up the last box that his brother B.W. slept in. It’s hard to put into words how empty my life is now. I’ve always had cats in my life. Now I only have ghosts to keep me company.

But I will say, all the pain and sadness is the price we pay for taking in these far too short but precious lives. Eventually, I know I will do it again.