Missing you

Gizmo, you have been gone for four years now and it still feels like yesterday. You were such a sweet and loving girl. You added so much joy to my life. I'm thankful and blessed to have loved you and cared for you. Your brother and I miss you so much. Not a day goes by that I don't think about you and wish you were still here. I will always love you and I will see you again someday at the Rainbow Bridge. Take care, sweet pea. I'm sending you all my love.

Memories and Musings

There were so many funny and sweet things about Gizmo. Here are just a few:

She loved to be scratched at the base of her tail. When being scratched there, she would raise her tush higher and higher until she would flip herself over. She would do that time and again.

When she was cold, she would burrow inside my shirt for warmth. I loved the feel of her silky fur right against my skin, with nothing separating us.

She refused to eat normal kitty treats. Pounce and Whisker Lickens would not do. She did, however, love tuna and milk and would eat them anytime they were offered.

The fur right behind her ears was a little bit fuzzier than the rest of her. I loved to feel it when she would perk her ears up.

She was always brave, despite her size. She would stretch her neck to get the best view and give a little growl that only I could hear.

Her purr was so quiet. You could only hear it when you were right next to her, with your ear very close to her body.

She had a few favorite toys. One was a pink fuzzy ball. When playing with that ball, if Charlie would wander by, Gizmo would bat it under her butt and sit on it. She would watch Charlie go by and when he was gone, she'd kick the ball back out with her hind leg and begin playing again. She refused to share that ball with Charlie.

She also had a little stuffed frog and a plastic purple hippo that she loved. She would take these two toys plus her pink ball, line them up, and lay on them like they were her babies. I called it her "whacked-out maternal instinct" - it didn't seem to matter that she was spayed.

When I would read she liked to lay in front of me - between me and the book - and chew on the corners of the pages. No matter how many times I told her "no" she would continue to do it.

When I would cross stitch, Gizmo would lay in my lap with her head and paws on my belly. She would watch that thread move through the fabric and grab it with her paws. Or she would try to chew on the thread if it stopped moving, even for a second.

She was so tiny. She was like a kitten her entire life. Even her meow was tiny. And there was a chirp to it . . . brrrr-eow.

She had many nicknames. Some of them were Gizzie, Gizzer, GizGirl, Gizabelle, Baby Girl, Pretty Girl, Sweet Pea.

She and I could communicate without ever making a sound. If I was in bed and wanted her to join me I would just look her in the eyes. She would search my face for a second and jump right into bed with me.

If I couldn't find Gizmo and wanted her to come to me, I would simply sing the Meow Mix jingle. Before I hit the sixth meow she'd be in sight. It worked every time.

She loved the bathtub. When I would take baths she would sit on the edge and put her tail and/or paws in the water. And she would talk to me incessantly. I miss that. She loved all water actually. She would often play in her water dish, batting the water gently a few times with her tail swishing and then she would slam her paw in the water - BAM - and dump the whole dish, covering herself in water.

An Impractical Cat

I’m not much like
other cats. My fur is
exquisitely soft, my
eyes like emeralds.
Queen-like in stature,
I sit above my family
tall and straight.
I expect certain things
of my lady, and she
must deliver. A brushing
each day at five. Bottled
water poured each morning.
And respect. She must not
laugh at me, or play as
though I am ordinary.
It is just not so.
I am extraordinary.

Much like T.S. Eliot says,
“A cat must have three
different names.” And I do.
My lady calls me Gizmo,
a lovely name I’m sure. But
it does not fit me properly.
My brother calls me Prissy,
which I like all right. It
certainly is dignified.
But my name, the name
that I, as Eliot says, “will
never confess” is the most
fitting of all. And I must
confess it, a secret held
much too long.
CLEOPATRA.

A lovely name. A name
of distinction. Now you see
why I must act as a queen does.
Why every bit of me,
my fur, my eyes, my lithe
figure, is so superb.
I have been blessed with
beauty beyond that of all
other cats. I am not
ordinary.
I am extraordinary.

Now, do not call me
Cleo. Or Patty. Or Priss.
You do not know me
that well.
Same as my lady, you may
only call me Gizmo. But
do not expect me to
acknowledge you
when spoken to. I will
not “condescend to treat
you as a trusted friend.”
So do not act as if
you are. When I see you,
at times, I may hiss.
This is a reminder
that you are simply below
me.

So please remember,
although I have confessed
my name, you are not
a confidant.
I am entitled
“to expect little evidences
of respect” from you,
as well as everyone else.
For you see, I am not
ordinary.
I am extraordinary.