Last week I wrote about my failed campaign to write myself letters four times a year. I wanted to demonstrate the concern I hold for my own diminishing memory; the ability to remember is more illusory than anything. For that reason I've been trying to maintain physical records of my history, focusing on the three-month time period. Three months strikes me as the most I can keep in my head at once and summarize effectively.
Three months is also the length of time we had Gus for. He's already been gone for over a week and a half, and I have to record everything I can from our time together. I've uploaded his pictures and one video to my Flickr account; they may prove a useful visual aid.
When my girlfriend ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif)
familyjules and I moved into our new apartment last December, we decided it might be time to get a second cat. I'd been hesitant since Julie's first cat, Angel, was violently opposed to other cats' presence. The new apartment was a lot bigger than Julie's old apartment, though, so we thought it might be worth trying. Near the end of February, we decided to give it a shot; Julie's friend Liz had a big black cat that she couldn't really take care of since she was out of the house so much, and we agreed to take him.
Gus showed up the first day while I was still at work. Angel was not happy about the situation--lots of hissing and growling on her part. Gus pretty much just stayed in the back bedroom, under the bed or the papasan or occasionally venturing into the hallway to lay at the base of the doorway on the wood-like laminate. He had a big automatic feeder that was timed to release food twice daily and a little water dish, both of which we kept on the floor in the kitchen; we moved Angel's food and water onto the counter to keep him from eating it. For the first couple days, he was pretty stand-offish, and would only let Julie pet him. One time he'd settled on the floor in the office when I wanted to use the computer, so to keep from disturbing him, I actually squeezed behind the recliners to get past him.
Gus's litter box was a big, covered affair, almost twice as big as Angel's. Even this proved almost insufficient, because that cat could poop. Sometimes the smell would reach the other rooms of the apartment. What was worse was the discovery that he didn't really know how to pee in the box. He'd start out squatting, but then stand back up before he was finished, spraying urine all over the place. Not only did we have to replace Angel's uncovered litter box with another giant covered one, we had to start taping trash bags over the seams so that nothing would leak out we he was in there.
It didn't take long for Gus to start coming out of his shell. His enthusiasm for food meant he'd charge into the kitchen whenever the feeder released some food; he'd also follow us if we were heading that direction and meow to convince us to give him some food early. He warmed up to me and Julie pretty quickly, but Angel still maintained a wary distance from him. He didn't seem to mind her too much, though, and might occasionally try to bat at her or sniff her face, but she was rarely in the mood to tolerate his presence.
Gus liked to sprawl out wherever he could. Particular favorite spots included the floor under the papasan, the floor just outside our bedroom, the kitchen floor, the floor next to the front door, the floor in the bathroom, the carpet in front of the sliding doors, my Wii Fit yoga mat (he really liked trying to sharpen his claws on this, despite the fact that he'd been declawed in the front), several chairs and recliners in the office, the back of the sofa, the back of the love-seat, the back of the recliners in the office, the bathroom sink, and (more than anywhere else) the concrete at the base of the stairs to our apartment. Julie wrote about Gus's tendency to "give up on life" when he was on the couches. He may not have been much of a lap-cat, but he loved to be around us, and whenever we'd go somewhere in the apartment, he'd wind up right there, even if that meant barging in on you in the bathroom and sprawling out on the floor, or sneaking into the bathroom while you were in the shower to do something terrible in the litter box. Julie spent many happy evenings at home, lying on the sofa, Gus collapsed on the back of the sofa above her, his paws occasionally bonking her in the face.
I mentioned that Gus loved to lie on the concrete at the base of our steps, but that doesn't really do it proper justice. As I mentioned just three weeks ago, Gus had the grass monkey on his back. He loved nothing else like the chance to sprint down our wooden staircase to the pavement where he'd settle down in the sunlight and start chewing on grass. Sometimes he'd just stay right there, basking, and other times he'd sniff and explore and bite at the grass and sneak into our downstairs neighbor's patio, or make a stealthy break for the office. It was the best part of his day, and he'd spend a lot of time every day just sitting in the foyer, meowing to be let out. Julie would try letting him onto the deck instead, and while he enjoyed that, it wasn't remotely the same as getting at that delicious grass. He could be a real pest about it at times, and you had to be careful whenever you entered or left the building, because he'd take the opportunity to try and slip through your legs and race down the stairs, giving you an alarming view of his nether regions. We were always kind of concerned that it was making him throw up, possibly because the complex maintenance people would spray pesticides. We even bought him some cat grass, but that stuff just didn't compare to the real thing, I guess, because he ignored it completely.
He was our Gus, our Guster Goo, Mr. Guggenheim, Goog, Guggenheimen Heimenguggen when Julie was feeling silly, Emperor Augustus when I was feeling silly, and on one memorable occasion he was Gussy Gussy Two by Four. He was a big brave boy and his teeth were so big that they stuck out of his mouth even when he had it closed, and he loved us, and we loved him, we loved him so much, and I'm sitting her crying now as I write this.
( Because we failed him. )
Gus was a good kitty and I miss him.
sad
