I miss my friend Gus

I had a friend named Gus who recently died. It was sudden and unexpected. I cried. And cried. Part of me felt embarrassed about being so distraught over this loss. Part of me thought it was silly or weak to be so sad over this loss because...Gus was a cat. Yes, I cried because a cat died. Part of me (it grows smaller and smaller) still feels a little reluctant to admit that. It's not very macho is it? I don't care.

Gus was not a cat. Gus was my cat. Gus was our cat. Kara and I found him in the storm sewer while riding our bikes in her parents neighborhood several years ago. He was just a kitten then, crying in the street. If I had been alone at the time I may have ridden on by. Kara could not do that, and that's one of the reasons I am madly in love with her. She had recently rescued another cat that was now living at her parent's house. It was decided that this new cat could not live with the much bigger Louie, and could not live at Kara's apartment (can't remember why exactly). So he came to my place that evening. We gave him a bath in my tub. I remember holding him in one hand above the water and moving him backwards in the air. He would stick his back legs straight out like he was worried about bumping into something. =) I did NOT want a cat. The next morning I left him on my front porch and went to work. Kara did not think that was a good idea so she came and got my keys, found him, and at that point the cat pretty much had a home with me. There was a pet deposit which Kara paid or split with me. So I had a cat. I named him Gus. Augustus actually. He was a pain sometimes. He made messes. He was not very affectionate, in fact he was somewhat anti-social. He attacked a few people who came to feed him when I went out of town. He never attacked me though which was good. He kept me company. I took care of him.

When Kara and I moved into our house, Gus came along. It took him about a week to fully venture downstairs away from the room that had all the furniture from my apartment. That room became his room. I still think of it as his room. He eventually became comfortable all throughout the house, and even outside. He had a few favorite spots. Under a chair in the living room, on a pillow on the daybed, on the foot of the recliner when Kara was sitting in it, on the front window sill. He normally wanted to be in the same room as us, but not always right next to us. He would occasionally deem one of us worthy and grace us with his presence in our lap so that we could enjoy petting him. He would tell us when he wanted to go outside by meowing or scratching at the backdoor. When I came in though the front door, I could see him coming to greet me. He somehow knew it was me because when someone else would knock or ring the bell, he would bolt to his room. He knew when Kara or I had returned home, and would come meow and do his little dance. He liked us. He didn't like anyone else. I admit that made me like him more. He was our cat, our "people." He was a third of our family.

He hasn't been gone that long. I forget sometimes and start to look for him, or think I hear him. Moving the blinds to see out the window, or running down the stairs, or making that little grunting noise when he jumped down from somewhere. I wish he was still here. I don't understand why he isn't. It doesn't seem fair. I'm sad that he isn't. I'm sad that my cat died. That may sound silly, or weak, or ridiculous to some. I don't care. I miss my friend.