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This is my shrine to my recently deceased cat Gandalf, the oldest, meanest, most loved pet I have ever had the honor of being owned by. May she rest peacefully for eternity.
Yes, Gandalf was a she. I took her in when she was but a kitten just past being weaned. Growing up on a farm in rural Stanly County, North Carolina, we had lots of cats. At one point, I think we had
upwards of fifty or so roaming around. It was late November/early December. Now this was before our recent trend of warm but wet winters we seem to have now. Gandalf's mother, Patches, had her litter
out in the woodshed, a common birthing ground for the horde of cats. One would think it had its own nursing ward. She just didn't time it very well, waiting until a fresh fall of snow was falling to
give birth. I don't remember how many were in the litter, probably four or five.
I also don't remember what exactly happened to Patches. She had already given birth to may litters, and was always a good provider for her babies. Unfortunately, it was winter and we also lived on a fairly
busy highway. All I really remember is that one day, Patches wasn't there anymore.
I wasn't much more than a kitten myself, but the baby kitties were even younger and helpless. I took them in, the four that had not yet succumbed to the cold. I fed them warm milk with a medicine dropper
at first, working them slowly to dry food made soggy with water or milk. During the day, I would keep them in a small box by the wood stove and play with them when I got home from school. A night, I
would take them to bed with me. They would scamper and scoot around my bed with the energy that only kittens can muster until they tired themselves out. Eventually, they would all lie down, all snuggled
close to one another, and with me as well, to keep warm. I don't claim to know the trial and tribulations of motherhood or the pains of caring for a child, but I do know that in the middle of the night,
when one kitten gets hungry and starts mewing, the rest quickly follow.
By the end of the winter, there were only two of the four left. I can't recall why the other two died, and truthfully it doesn't really matter. Of the two left, my older sister named one of them Stanly.
Why? I don't know. She usually came up with better names than that. She must have been off that day.
Yeah. Like I wasn't.
I had just finished reading the Hobbit and the Lord of the Rings trilogy for the first time. Since Gandalf was the whitest of the kittens, I dubbed her Gandalf the (Mostly) White. Actually, thinking back
on it now, I think it was more that Stanly was almost completely black, which just made Gandalf's whiteness stand out that much more. What can you say? That is the logic of an eleven year old boy. By
the time I realized that Gandalf was a female cat (and really understood the differences that entailed), she was already well aware that her name was Gandalf, and that she would have nothing to do with
a name change.
Like I said in the opening, she was cranky when it suited her, which was most of the time. I have a friend that would always come over and try to pet her, usually to unhappy ends. If I held her and
kept her attention, she would let almost anyone pet her. But as soon as she realized someone else was petting her, she would turn with her kitty celerity and bop them three times before they could pull
back. This was particularly amusing when someone new was petting her, not knowing she was declawed.
I don't think she ever quite got the idea that she had no claws, but she more than made up for it with her super kitty chomp. She had to be pretty riled up to actually bite at someone, like having
already given them her (not quite) deadly paw swipe three or four times. If someone pressed her too much, she would then lash out with her teeth and hold on for dear life. Few ever pushed her that far
twice.
Gandalf died of old age on Thursday, October 24, 2002, just a few minutes before midnight. She passed quietly snuggled in her favorite afghan, sitting in my lap, while I softly pet her head and openly
wept. I realize that life goes on, but she was a large part of my life since childhood, and now, she is gone. She was my companion and my friend for close to twenty years.
To quote Morgan Freeman from the Shawshank Redemption: I miss my friend.
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