A testament to my buddy, Griffin

Griffin in repose, a favored position 23 hours of the day

Mr. Griffin is, like his master, getting old. He walks stiffly and seems to have some sort of arthritic thing happening in his hindquarters. He is (at an estimate) about 18, which, in cat years, is around 278. But, he is alert, seems to be happy, consumes massive amounts of food, and still manages to get up to puke on the hall carpet. Such are the ways of cats.

I’m sorry that he is getting old. I’m even sorrier that he won’t be around indefinitely. I am sorry about all of that because he and I are ‘connected.’ And, that is saying a great deal for me, since I’m not, in the purist sense of the word, a ‘cat person.’ Essentially, I’m a dog guy. Always have been and always will be. But, dogs are a pain in the ass, too, because they are so needy. Cats are low maintenance. And that’s why I have a cat.

And therein lies a tale:

I got Griffin (he’s named after a local pub, is what the shelter people told me when I acquired him) back in February 1997. I was recently separated, living in a nifty condo, and oh so lonely. I was then in the midst of pissing matches with my recently ‘ex’ and we were still inexcusably soaking each other to excess. At the same time I, being a relatively outgoing person, wanted company. I mean, what I really wanted was female company. That was what I wanted. That is what I’ve always wanted. But, considering what I had just gone through, I felt it prudent to not want to share my digs with somebody who was going to be hanging pantyhose over the shower rod. Nice thought, but I was still too raw. Anyway, I’d done the ‘rebound’ process before, and that – and I cannot emphasize this enough, is a really STUPID! Motivation for linking up with anybody no matter how enticing they are – wasn’t what I needed. Not just yet.

So, I checked with the condo manager about having a pet. No dogs, he said, but you can have a cat provided it was clean and with the understanding that I would cover all the damages for anything that might get clawed, shredded or puked upon.

So, a cat was what it was to be. I went to the SPCA and was truly specific. I wanted a well-behaved 'adult' cat. The lady at the helm I think could have French kissed me because she was so happy I wanted a grown-up cat and not some cute little kitten. Kittens get adopted. Cats, rarely. So, that meant there were a lot of ‘dead cats walking’ around that place.

“We have such a cat for you!” she said, exultantly and probably not with a Jewish accent. Then, she introduced me to Griffin. Griffin was an adult male, probably about seven years old, well behaved, neutered, and extremely affectionate. He was all of those things. I was sold virtually immediately. And that was how he came into my life.

I’ve never looked back. A few months later he moved in with me, I took up with Wendy. After she and I had dated a few times, she came back to my place for the first time She met Griffin. Griffin immediately took to her. Like his master, he likes dames. “You’re a cat person,” Wendy said, her voice filled with delight. “Man, are you going to get lucky tonight.” She didn’t actually say that at all, but I thought it added color to the story. Suffice it to say she was well pleased, since she had two cats of her own.

After dating for a few months, we moved in together. She was apprehensive about the mixing of the felines. I assured her Griffin was a gent and would cause no trouble with her existing neutered females. He never did. They blended perfectly.

Wendy’s cats were quite old and cranky at the time, and have long since shuffled off this mortal coil, but for the time they were together, Griffin was always respctful, let them pass through the doors before him and metaphorically tipped his hat to them always. After hers had gone, we got Stumpy, the bizarre and fabulous little Manx, just to keep Griffin company. They got along famously. But then Stumpy (sigh) died very prematurely a couple of years ago.

Since then, Griffin has been on his own. He doesn’t seem to mind much. He’s back to the way it was in the beginning – just him and me most of the time, since Wendy works out of town during the week (which I seem to hate more than he does). He seems OK with it being just us guys.

And that is my little Thursday testament to my very old cat.