Georgie died yesterday. He was only 7 years old. And his sister, Martha died last year when she was only 6. They died from different causes, but I fear that high breeding had something to do with their premature deaths.
George and Martha were Maine Coon cats; siblings from the same litter, but different as night and day. Martha was the alpha cat; a pushy but lovable bitch who performed only in the center ring—she was the Queen. Her nickname was Queenie.
Martha was the first thing I saw when I woke up in the morning, because minutes before the alarm went off, she would camp near the bed, staring at me, waiting for the radio to come on—or for my eyelids to open; either event would set her off. Then she would MEOOOWWW for attention and head for the kitchen counter and the treat jar. If I didn’t follow immediately she would retrace her steps and MEOOOWWW again, “C’mon Marvin, I’m hungry.” This was every day—no holidays for the Queen’s staff.
George was the opposite; he was laid back and very, very lovable. Malleable is a word that comes to mind.; you could handle him like play dough. And he was the prettiest cat I ever saw. He was cordovan colored with streaks of black, and he had long pointed ears like a bobcat. He was wild looking. And beautiful.
Georgie was Annice’s alarm clock. He slept in the bed with her, and like his sister, he had a morning routine. Minutes before the alarm went off, he would perch on Annice’s chest, nose to nose with her face, and then he would bump her chin with his chin until she opened her eyes.
Two personal alarm clocks. What more could one ask for?
They were siblings and yet very different. Martha loved to be brushed; Georgie liked to be massaged. He loved for me to rub his back—and his stomach. And if I quit too soon he would head-butt me until I resumed the treatment.
Martha was pushy and demanding; Georgie was tolerant and forgiving. But both were needy in their own way. Sweet is how I would describe George. We joked that there must have been a mix-up at the breeder and he was probably the girl.
I miss them more than I can express, but my sadness is overshadowed by Annice’s grief. I was out of town when Georgie died and Annice called about midnight to tell me what happened. I cannot get her awful wailing voice out of my mind; it was the most helpless forlorn sound I’ve ever heard. Later she told me she loved them more than any pets she’s ever had. She didn’t need to explain.
We have fuzzy colored balls all over the house for the cats to play with. The other cats (we have four) mostly ignore them, but Georgie considered them prize prey and green was his favorite color. Loud chirps announced his hunting trips as he proudly paraded through the house with the latest kill. The House is no longer safe from green balls.
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