gus

(Gussy) 

Good evening, firedogs!  Last night’s rampage and deeply satisfying tirade have left this 60-million-year-old predator feeling all sweet and cuddly, now that I’ve gotten out so much aggression.  I just can’t seem to find it in myself to be caustic or even irritable tonight.  I’m in a good mood.  I got my new phone.  I got The Wolcott Link (double w00t!!) and while there are assuredly plenty of things out there in the world to get heated about, tonight I just want to introduce you to a couple of friends of mine.

That handsome feller looking at you all upside down up there is Gus.  He’s 17 years old.  He is the Couch Kitty.  He and I have been hanging out together since the summer of 1993.  I had met him two years before, back in 1991, when my brother moved into a house with three roommates and two cats, Gus and Ian.  Gus and Ian were brothers.  Ian was an all-black who immediately claimed my brother as His New Person.  Gus and Ian’s old owner was smoking a lot of weed, popping pills, and drinking a lot of cheap beer and basically losing whole days and weeks at a time, so, until Patrick arrived, the kitties’ lives mostly revolved around hunting up their own food, and keeping away from the stinky hippies.

So, Ian took Patrick and Gus got me.  I was not a resident in this house, but a frequent visitor, and if Gus ever heard my voice in the house before I came to find him and nuzzle him and kiss his fuzzy head, he would start raising hell.  "MRRRR-OOOOWWWWWW!!  WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING HERE IF YOU’RE NOT LOVING ME??!!"

Naturally, we got along, being so similar in world-view. 

With Patrick in the house, both cats gained weight from regular feedings, sleeker coats from lots of love, and a whole new appreciation for their home environment.  Two years later, however, Patrick moved out and the cats’ owner insisted that they must stay with her, even though he took much better care of them than she ever did.  He lost track of both kitties for a few months, and then we found out that Ian had died because no one took him to the vet when he got sick, and that Gussy was terribly sick as well.

Patrick was devastated by the loss of Ian.  "WHY THE FUCK DIDN’T SOMEBODY TELL ME HE WAS FUCKING SICK??!!" he (understandably) raged.

I phoned up to ask about Gus.  They said I could come see him.  I got there and fought my way through the fog of pot smoke, kicking aside empty beer cans.  I found him huddled in a back room of the house, covered in scabs from a flea allergy run amok, underfed, dirty, and feverish.  I wrapped him in a towel and carried him back out to the living room with me.

"Listen up, you stupid fucking hippies," I said, "Gus is coming to live with me.  He’s way too special to suffer like this.  You don’t deserve him."

"But, like, duuuuuuude," Old Owner protested, "You can’t do that!"

I gave her what I call "The Look".  The one that says, "You will do as I say or I will happily flay your flesh from your bones and feed it to you."

"Try and stop me, you stupid cow." I repied evenly and maturely. 

She didn’t.

Poor Gussy.  It took weeks to get him healthy again, and he still stays kind of runny-nosed and sensitive to flea bites, but, thirteen years later, he’s still plugging away.  A little arthritic in his hips, so he spends most of his time snoozing on the living room sofa or a chair in one of the nests of blankets I have made for him around the house.  At his age, I think he deserves a little spoiling.

Seven years ago, my mom gave me this guy for my birthday:

 jc

(Juan Carlos) 

Yes, I know.  He’s blurry.  It’s one of the photos I snagged out of my old cell phone, but it’ll have to do for now.  This little cutie arrived when he was just a wee handful of fluff with a VERY LOUD VOICE.  In fact, he was rather bossy and imperious.  He would leap up on top of the refrigerator and upbraid us with his shrill, steel-bending little cry, "I WOULD REALLY LIKE SOME AFFECTION NOW, PLEASE!" or "I THINK THE LITTER BOX IS OVERDUE FOR A CLEANING!"

"Lord, critter!" I said to him one day, "It sounds like someone’s tuning a sitar in here.  Who do you think you are, the King of Spain?"

Somehow, the King of Spain apellation stuck.  King Juan Carlos.  King Juan Carlos the First, actually.  

Mostly, though, he’s just Juan, Juanito, Bunny, Bunny-Butt, Napoleon Bunnypants, JC, or My Leedle Frien’. 

He is the most affectionate cat I’ve ever known, let alone owned.  He purrs constantly.  He’s completely malleable.  You can carry him around like a baby, or over your shoulder, or tie him on like a scarf.  To my knowledge, he has never maliciously scratched or bitten anyone, ever.  He loves to sleep in my arms, and when I’m away from home, it’s not so much my bed that I miss, it’s having Juan to squeeze up against my chest as I fall asleep.  He likes to tuck his little head under my chin and knead the covers with his front paws.  He can’t STAND it when Gus gets up on the bed.  Gus can have any place in the house he likes, but not the bed.  JC is the Bed Cat.  

Juan also plays a number of games like Fetch, Kill the String, and Let’s Destroy the Bed While Daddy Tries to Make It Up.  That last one is his favorite, of course.  Any time he hears the dryer slam shut, he comes running to see if it’s time to romp around in a pile of clean, warm sheets as I try to secure them to the bed.  It would be direly irritating if it just wasn’t so damn cute.

And that’s what I’ve got tonight, kids.  Nerdy cat blogging.  Whoo-hooo!

How about you?  Who are the animals who make your life a better place to be?

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