Gillespie--Auxillary Cat?

As our readers know, we have two cats--Armani and Gillespie. The names alone reflect their personalities. Armani, the designer cat, is our poser. There are a lot more pictures of this elegant grand champion than of Gillespie, the humble one. Just before our trip, I had Armani in to our vet who crooned to him, "I'll bet you are your mom's favorite." Started me thinking. When I was still working, I had pictures of each cat in my office as props to get children talking. They would also often ask, "Which one do you like better?" The question reflects one in many children's minds about themselves and their siblings.

It is truly a difficult question. We feature Armani more in the blog. He is our shining star, striking photogenic poses and delighting strangers with his unabashed eagerness to be the center of activity. Many of our visitors don't even know what Gillespie looks like other than a grey shadow scurrying under the couch for safety. And so I have decided to tell Gillespie's story.

She was abandoned at the cafe of Gillespie Field airport as a tiny kitten. We were having a traditional Saturday morning breakfast with pilot friends when a terrified kitten cry echoed through the patio. The waitress told us that she had been found at opening in the trash can with a blanket. Someone had deposited her in this relatively safe receptacle during the night. I rounded up the frightened baby and held her squealing form up as she put tiny paws as much around my neck as much as she could and buried her face under my chin. I was hooked. There was no turning back from this instinctive act.

Now, we had two elderly and sickly Siamese cats are home and the last thing we needed was to bring in a stray. I rationalized that I would simply take her home and then to a rescue organization to find a good home. When I got her home and she recovered her spirits, I noticed that she was jetting around the house on three legs. Oh Oh! Can't send an injured cat to a rescue place. They would probably euthanize her. So I plunged in deeper.

I took her to the vet, hoping it was a dislocation that could easily be put right. That happens easily to cats. No such luck. Her femur was neatly snapped close to the hip socket. In deeper still. Turned out that vet was a master of microsurgery, so for a mere $400, she pinned the tiny leg. During her recovery, Gillespie turned into a grey jet ski on land and furniture. IN DEEPER. I started to look forward to coming home from work to watch the joyful bundle. She was better than Prozac!

Gillespie continued to greet me, begging to be held and cuddling her little face into that same spot under my chin. Today, at better than fifteen pounds, she still tries to do it. I was her mom! POINT OF NO RETURN! John was rightfully angry at first--protective of the well-being of our other cats. Who knew what that thing might be bringing in to our house. I spent two weeks in the spare room, avoiding an icy body and cuddling with my baby. John soon thawed and the kitten was ours. We named her Gillespie after the airport.

The summer after my retirement, Gillespie became desperatey ill with hepatic lipidosis due to major disruptions in her fat life. Overweight cats can quickly go into this deadly condition if they stop eating abruptly. John and I were faced with the decision--pour thousands of dollars into a mere animal just when we had entered fixed income stage or relieve her suffering by gently putting her down. It wasn't just a matter of money, it was also a matter of quality of life. We started by telling ourselves we would do what we could but no heroic measures. That meant doing what we could to force feed her and keep her hydrated. It became increasingly obvious that this would not work. Usually a rational person, I broke into sobs one day and admitted I just couldn't let her go. DEEPER STILL. We went to a specialist and had the feeding tube inserted. The rest in chronicled in summer '07 blog entries. Did I mention we were in Chimicum Washington at the time and living confined in our motorhome with perpetually grey skies outside?

During her recovery, she made her way on to the bed each night, nestled down next to me and purred. I told myself that as long as she purred, I would keep trying. One night she didn't come up. I was preparing myself for the end. The next night, as I was settling in, I felt a movement at the end of the bed. Gillespie was trying to get up but lacked the strength for the jump. I lifted her on the bed and she assumed her usual position and purred as loudly as ever.

We won that battle. I think now that it was preparation for this year's journey with my father as he left the world. This time, I wasn't rescuing, I was accompanying a beloved to the next life. I feel I won both times.

Now--Who do you think is my favorite cat?