I know I haven't posted in a long, long time, but today I have something to share.
Today at 11:30 am my parents had to put down the family cat, P.J. Cat. She was approximately twenty years old, which is freakin' amazing.
P.J. was adopted when I was around ten years old. This came as the result of me attending the birthday party of a classmate and spending most of the time playing with a mother cat and her new litter of kittens. The classmate's mother noticed my interest (and that I was a weird, lonely kid) and suggested to my parents that I needed a pet. We adopted P.J. from one of my public school teachers; she was a barn cat, and the runt of the litter. We named her P.J. because the book we got on cat care suggested that it would be best to give your pet a quick, easy name that you wouldn't be embarassed by. My dad always implied that the initials stood for "Poop Juice," but really they stood for nothing; her name was just P.J., and the vet's office added "Cat" at the end, making her P.J. Cat.
P.J. was my first real pet. We had a puppy for a few weeks when I was younger, but my sister turned out to be seriously allergic to dogs, so Sandy had to go. She was never a lapcat, but was affectionate in her own way, and terribly shy around strangers (unless she could sense you didn't like cats, in which case she would wind around your feet and rub up against you in typical feline perversity). She was an indoor-only cat, which in retrospect was probably fairly unusual for the time and certainly unusual for our neighbourhood (as is evidenced by the number of times I was woken up by cat fights, or found tomcat spray on the windows of the basement). She was declawed at the age of seven, but never exhibited any of the weird behavioural quirks that are common to declawed cats.
When I went away to university, P.J. stayed with my parents and sister because I couldn't have pets with me. She had been my cat pretty much up until that point, but once I left she became more "their" cat than mine. I missed her, but gradually she seemed to forget about me. Seven years ago, a careless relative left the side door open and P.J. escaped. She was missing for a while, and my parents and sister put up posters all around the city, offering a reward if found. They got a lot of calls, but they all turned out to be false alarms, and it looked like she'd never come home. Finally, after two weeks, my parents watched a show about recovering lost pets, and using some tips the show offered, they put some pieces of clothing out on the back porch -- things that would smell like P.J. and like them, in case she was lost and couldn't find her way back home. That night, Dad heard a strange, pathetic crying on the back porch, and sure enough, there was P.J. He ran outside to rescue her, at which point the motion-sensor security lights came on and he remembered that he slept naked ...
P.J. never learned to really meow; she just mewed. When Kari and I went away to camp, she would steal our socks from our bedrooms and carry them downstairs. While I lived at home, she slept with me (I don't move very much when I sleep). She was always small, not much more than ten pounds, and was a pretty silver colouring. Her eyes were huge, giving her the appearance of an alien "Grey." In her later years, she became deaf, but remained nimble and active up until the end, behaving like a cat half her age.
Yesterday she stopped eating and just lay beside her water dish. When my parents and sister were home, she would sit with them; when they weren't, she stayed by her water dish. They took her in to the vet and were told that her heart was failing. Because she wasn't in any pain, they took her home. This morning, they took her back in and had her put to sleep. She was given an overdose of sedatives, and died peacefully with my parents with her.
Rest in peace, P.J. "Poop Juice" Cat. You will be missed.
Today at 11:30 am my parents had to put down the family cat, P.J. Cat. She was approximately twenty years old, which is freakin' amazing.
P.J. was adopted when I was around ten years old. This came as the result of me attending the birthday party of a classmate and spending most of the time playing with a mother cat and her new litter of kittens. The classmate's mother noticed my interest (and that I was a weird, lonely kid) and suggested to my parents that I needed a pet. We adopted P.J. from one of my public school teachers; she was a barn cat, and the runt of the litter. We named her P.J. because the book we got on cat care suggested that it would be best to give your pet a quick, easy name that you wouldn't be embarassed by. My dad always implied that the initials stood for "Poop Juice," but really they stood for nothing; her name was just P.J., and the vet's office added "Cat" at the end, making her P.J. Cat.
P.J. was my first real pet. We had a puppy for a few weeks when I was younger, but my sister turned out to be seriously allergic to dogs, so Sandy had to go. She was never a lapcat, but was affectionate in her own way, and terribly shy around strangers (unless she could sense you didn't like cats, in which case she would wind around your feet and rub up against you in typical feline perversity). She was an indoor-only cat, which in retrospect was probably fairly unusual for the time and certainly unusual for our neighbourhood (as is evidenced by the number of times I was woken up by cat fights, or found tomcat spray on the windows of the basement). She was declawed at the age of seven, but never exhibited any of the weird behavioural quirks that are common to declawed cats.
When I went away to university, P.J. stayed with my parents and sister because I couldn't have pets with me. She had been my cat pretty much up until that point, but once I left she became more "their" cat than mine. I missed her, but gradually she seemed to forget about me. Seven years ago, a careless relative left the side door open and P.J. escaped. She was missing for a while, and my parents and sister put up posters all around the city, offering a reward if found. They got a lot of calls, but they all turned out to be false alarms, and it looked like she'd never come home. Finally, after two weeks, my parents watched a show about recovering lost pets, and using some tips the show offered, they put some pieces of clothing out on the back porch -- things that would smell like P.J. and like them, in case she was lost and couldn't find her way back home. That night, Dad heard a strange, pathetic crying on the back porch, and sure enough, there was P.J. He ran outside to rescue her, at which point the motion-sensor security lights came on and he remembered that he slept naked ...
P.J. never learned to really meow; she just mewed. When Kari and I went away to camp, she would steal our socks from our bedrooms and carry them downstairs. While I lived at home, she slept with me (I don't move very much when I sleep). She was always small, not much more than ten pounds, and was a pretty silver colouring. Her eyes were huge, giving her the appearance of an alien "Grey." In her later years, she became deaf, but remained nimble and active up until the end, behaving like a cat half her age.
Yesterday she stopped eating and just lay beside her water dish. When my parents and sister were home, she would sit with them; when they weren't, she stayed by her water dish. They took her in to the vet and were told that her heart was failing. Because she wasn't in any pain, they took her home. This morning, they took her back in and had her put to sleep. She was given an overdose of sedatives, and died peacefully with my parents with her.
Rest in peace, P.J. "Poop Juice" Cat. You will be missed.
