Our friend George died last Thursday. He ate a big breakfast, purred beside Kate as she read the paper, then stretched out on the foot of a bed and never woke up. Kate and Jim say it was a peaceful way to go, but so sudden it was a shock. They are a mess.
When George arrived at the McMullan's, he was a little thing, but his personality was strong, even then. Jim wanted to name him Hector. But Leigh started calling him George, and the name fit.
George was only thirteen when he died , but he was a hefty one, so maybe that's what did him in. That boy loved his kibble. George was a looker, but he had brains, too, and kept up with the latest books.
George loved licking Jim's cereal bowl. He loved snuggling with Leigh and Kate. He loved spreading out his large body in a passageway and looking at Toby and me as if daring us to try to get by. I usually made a run for it, but Toby mostly waited for a human to escort him by George the Terrible.
George didn't like closed doors, visiting dogs, visiting humans, or the vet. Getting him into a cat carrier was all but impossible, so he had a house-call vet, and the vet always brought along an assistant to help handle George. More than once, the assistant was bleeding and bandaged when she left, and Kate slipped her 'combat pay.' It was never a good idea to mess around with George.
When Kate and Jim found George on the foot of the bed last Thursday, they wrapped him in a soft towel. Kate held him and cried and cried while Jim dug a hole in the backyard, and they buried him beside three other McMullan cats, Annie, Groucho, and Wendy. This is the first time in thirty-five years that Kate and Jim haven't had a cat.
The day George died, there was such sadness in our house. Toby wouldn't take treats and he moped around like he'd lost his best friend. I managed to eat my treats, but I felt the same way.
We all miss you, Georgie.
George McMullan
