My Gus Gus died a few weeks ago and I need to write about him. I realized this the other day when I heard someone say, “Gus!” and my stomach dropped. Suddenly it was the last night of poor Gus's life, and we were back at the soulless, sterile budget motel in Syracuse right off the New York Thruway.
It was dusk. I was exhausted, back aching, legs stiff. I'd just driven 500 miles with two quick breaks, totalling maybe 15 minutes, for gas and the bathroom.
Too many trips from car to room, unloading cat carriers, food bag, bowls, litter, scoop, litter boxes, my one travel bag. The soundtrack: blighted and otherworldly -- engines droning, whooshing.The smell: dystopian highway – asphalt, exhaust, and that faint garbage-decaying smell that always seems to hover around roadside lodgings. Then stomach-growling, eyes stinging from too much road, watching the other cats prowl around, sniff at corners, roll on the bed, lap up the water I’d just put out for them, but Gus not moving. Then shaking Gus from his pet carrier because he wouldn’t or couldn’t leave it even though for hours he’d been mewing to get out. Not annoying mewing, more like the noise you might make if you were a sweet cat who didn't want to be a bother but who needed a few minutes of your time to perhaps have a little chat and maybe a snuggle.
It was the second day of our three-day trip from Iowa to Massachusetts. The first day, I drove six hours. Totally uneventful. The cats were great. No meows, peeps. Very calm, all of us. Even the traffic outside Chicago, normally a bumper car nightmare, was relatively tame. Day two was eight-ish hours. Day three would be another six. On my own, I do the trip in two days. But with pets, I figured taking three days was more humane. I was used to twelve-hour drives. They were not.
To say the cats were not thrilled about taking this or any journey would be an understatement.
The party starts with the packing. First, there’s the clawing as I maneuver them into their carriers. Then there’s the usual torturous meowing while I drive. And even though I try to drown them out by hitting eleven on the volume button, it doesn’t change the fact that I can still hear them, and I can’t help putting myself in their paws. Meow. How would I feel if I was suddenly ripped from all that I knew, thrown into a cage, jostled around for hours, then deposited in a strange new land where I didn’t understand the sights, smells, sounds? Stressed. That’s how I’d feel. Stressed. Meow. And more than a little resentful. Maximum meow.
For this trip, I was ahead of the game though. Found some calming treats that the cats totally obsessed over. Started dosing them the day before the trip. Then on departure day covered the car and carriers with Feliway spray. Doused the bathroom too. Why the bathroom? Been a cat person for over thirty years now and am privy to at least one cardinal cat travel rule: Cats are obligated to hide when they know a car trip is imminent. Through trial, error, and too many bandages, I’ve learned that using the bathroom as packing central is the best way to ensure that I’ll get them in their carriers. You try trapping six pounds of fluff balled up in a far corner behind a heavy washing machine. It doesn’t take long to figure out you need an alternative method.
Gus used to be that tiny kitty, nimble enough to hop, skip, claw over dirty laundry and countertops, under beds and behind refrigerators. He’d put up such a fight I’d end up having to cancel and reschedule vet appointments. It truly was an act of God, actually getting him into his carrier. Gus was a force of nature. A hurricane in cat form.
I learned to lure him into the bathroom under the pretense of giving him a treat, then BAM! Lock the door. WHAM! Use both hands to grab each set of legs, pretty much hog-tying the poor baby. POW! Kick the carrier out from its hiding place and WHOOSH! Dump him headfirst into it. Nine years of vet visits, this was the norm.
A master manipulator, the look he’d shoot me once he was safely zipped up – indignant, pleading, devastated? Killer. Gus knew how to play me.
I remember for this last trip, for the first time in his life Gus did not put up a fight about getting into his carrier. Gus was docile. Eerily so. I took his shift in personality as a sign that the Feliway and treats were working. Looking back now, I’m not so sure about that.
Gus
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