I am sad today.
[Arlo D. Moose has left us.]My big old scaredy cat has vanished.
Sunday is the last time either of us can recall seeing him, and searching the house has so far not turned him up.
In the last six or eight months, it's been clear that Arlo was on a decline, losing weight and getting clumsy, and given that he was almost 10, and all of his littermates but one are already gone, I had sort of accepted that I wouldn't have him for much longer.
I'm pretty sure my lovely old boy has gone off on his own to find a place to die.
I wish his instincts weren't as strong as they are, but he's always been an oddly wonderful and unique furball.
He was scared to death of the ceiling fan in our place, and we only figured it out when we tried to carry him while walking past it and he lost his furry little mind trying to get away. I still have the scar on the back of my arm from that day. Near as I can figure, he thought it was a very large, very patient, predatory bird.
One of his favourite things was so join me in bed and curl up on my hip or butt, depending on how I was stretched out. Or, if I was facedown, particularly if I was reading or playing with my phone, he'd have to fit himself inside the space between my arms, so I could drop kisses on him and whuffle his belly.
You know whuffling. You stick your face in the cat's belly and blow air or make noises, and the cat either loves it or eats your available ear. Or both. Anyway, Arlo loved it.
He'd become less confident lately. We thought perhaps he had kitty dementia, because he'd seem really scared and lost, and then we'd pet him and he'd relax and purr. He would still fall off of things, though, and recently needed a lot more cuddles and attention. I made a point of putting blankets and towels on him lately, because he'd been over-grooming his back end and his fur was thin, and he always liked being under. He'd make chatty noises at me and settle in more.
Arlo was the cat you could shove over on his side and pet for an hour, and he'd be perfectly fine with that, unless he knew food was being put out for him somewhere. He hated the dog from upstairs, and any cats that weren't Finn, and he'd go screaming and swatting at the window if he saw them, and five minutes later he'd be giving Finn a facewash and purring like he'd never been happier.
He was afraid of the microwave door. Not the microwave operating noise, or the physical object, even. You'd catch him sitting on top of the microwave looking perfectly content and not at all bothered. He was afraid of the door. Of the noise the door made. Of it opening. It got to the point where if he saw you moving toward the microwave with a plate of food, he'd bolt in terror and hide in another room. In fact, one day I opened the microwave door and had him come vaulting over the top edge, hissing and puffed up. I didn't know he was asleep up there behind a box of popcorn packets.
Arlo has been part of my life since he was 3 or 4 weeks old. He was born March 8-ish, 2003, and I first met him in early April of that year. He was a loud, squawky kitten who wouldn't stop screaming until I picked him up, and then he cuddled up on my collarbone and went to sleep. He did the same to my mother a couple of months later, and she fell in love, and he came home with us.
In his entire life, he never learned to retract his claws. Watching him try to run on carpet was hysterical, and you could always hear him coming. One of his many nicknames was Tick Tick, for the sound he made on non-carpeted surfaces. Damn, that cat was fun, and ridiculous, and I don't want him to be gone.
About 3.5 years ago, my mother couldn't take care of him any more, so he came to live with me. He was a huge, silly, loving chicken, and he could give the sweetest, most adoring looks when he was happy, which was a lot of the time. He and Gord were good buddies, and when Gord died, Arlo was lonely.
When Finn arrived, Arlo was having none of it. He hissed and growled and yowled and Finn blithely ignored him except to use him as a living climbing-and-chewing toy. Eventually, Arlo learned to sit on Finn and wash him until he squirmed free and fled, and they became chums. Arlo had a mothering instinct with other cats.
I know it's his time. I know. But I could accept that so much better if I knew where he was, and could be sure he wasn't cold, or scared, or in pain. I wanted to be there when he left, so I could tell him he's a pretty boy and we love him, and give him cuddles if he'd have them.
Finn's clearly aware that something's wrong, because he's been needier than ever before, and when I cry, he shows up and chirps at me. I wish he could tell me where to find Arlo. He hasn't been disappearing or making noises in other rooms like I should follow him, so I don't have a clue if he understands that Arlo's gone or missing or what.
I'm sad. I miss him already, of course. I just want to tell him he's still and always the Big Pretty, and that he'll be missed, and that he was brilliant, even when he was a weird little pain in the ass. He was such a sweet cat, and all he ever really wanted was love.
Sunday is the last time either of us can recall seeing him, and searching the house has so far not turned him up.
In the last six or eight months, it's been clear that Arlo was on a decline, losing weight and getting clumsy, and given that he was almost 10, and all of his littermates but one are already gone, I had sort of accepted that I wouldn't have him for much longer.
I'm pretty sure my lovely old boy has gone off on his own to find a place to die.
I wish his instincts weren't as strong as they are, but he's always been an oddly wonderful and unique furball.
He was scared to death of the ceiling fan in our place, and we only figured it out when we tried to carry him while walking past it and he lost his furry little mind trying to get away. I still have the scar on the back of my arm from that day. Near as I can figure, he thought it was a very large, very patient, predatory bird.
One of his favourite things was so join me in bed and curl up on my hip or butt, depending on how I was stretched out. Or, if I was facedown, particularly if I was reading or playing with my phone, he'd have to fit himself inside the space between my arms, so I could drop kisses on him and whuffle his belly.
You know whuffling. You stick your face in the cat's belly and blow air or make noises, and the cat either loves it or eats your available ear. Or both. Anyway, Arlo loved it.
He'd become less confident lately. We thought perhaps he had kitty dementia, because he'd seem really scared and lost, and then we'd pet him and he'd relax and purr. He would still fall off of things, though, and recently needed a lot more cuddles and attention. I made a point of putting blankets and towels on him lately, because he'd been over-grooming his back end and his fur was thin, and he always liked being under. He'd make chatty noises at me and settle in more.
Arlo was the cat you could shove over on his side and pet for an hour, and he'd be perfectly fine with that, unless he knew food was being put out for him somewhere. He hated the dog from upstairs, and any cats that weren't Finn, and he'd go screaming and swatting at the window if he saw them, and five minutes later he'd be giving Finn a facewash and purring like he'd never been happier.
He was afraid of the microwave door. Not the microwave operating noise, or the physical object, even. You'd catch him sitting on top of the microwave looking perfectly content and not at all bothered. He was afraid of the door. Of the noise the door made. Of it opening. It got to the point where if he saw you moving toward the microwave with a plate of food, he'd bolt in terror and hide in another room. In fact, one day I opened the microwave door and had him come vaulting over the top edge, hissing and puffed up. I didn't know he was asleep up there behind a box of popcorn packets.
Arlo has been part of my life since he was 3 or 4 weeks old. He was born March 8-ish, 2003, and I first met him in early April of that year. He was a loud, squawky kitten who wouldn't stop screaming until I picked him up, and then he cuddled up on my collarbone and went to sleep. He did the same to my mother a couple of months later, and she fell in love, and he came home with us.
In his entire life, he never learned to retract his claws. Watching him try to run on carpet was hysterical, and you could always hear him coming. One of his many nicknames was Tick Tick, for the sound he made on non-carpeted surfaces. Damn, that cat was fun, and ridiculous, and I don't want him to be gone.
About 3.5 years ago, my mother couldn't take care of him any more, so he came to live with me. He was a huge, silly, loving chicken, and he could give the sweetest, most adoring looks when he was happy, which was a lot of the time. He and Gord were good buddies, and when Gord died, Arlo was lonely.
When Finn arrived, Arlo was having none of it. He hissed and growled and yowled and Finn blithely ignored him except to use him as a living climbing-and-chewing toy. Eventually, Arlo learned to sit on Finn and wash him until he squirmed free and fled, and they became chums. Arlo had a mothering instinct with other cats.
I know it's his time. I know. But I could accept that so much better if I knew where he was, and could be sure he wasn't cold, or scared, or in pain. I wanted to be there when he left, so I could tell him he's a pretty boy and we love him, and give him cuddles if he'd have them.
Finn's clearly aware that something's wrong, because he's been needier than ever before, and when I cry, he shows up and chirps at me. I wish he could tell me where to find Arlo. He hasn't been disappearing or making noises in other rooms like I should follow him, so I don't have a clue if he understands that Arlo's gone or missing or what.
I'm sad. I miss him already, of course. I just want to tell him he's still and always the Big Pretty, and that he'll be missed, and that he was brilliant, even when he was a weird little pain in the ass. He was such a sweet cat, and all he ever really wanted was love.