Penelope
He was my longest male relationship, we shared a bed, we cuddled on the sofa, he’d hear the car come home and greet me at the door, he was especially handsome, he’d bring me gifts, he had an appreciation for my garden and was popular with the neighbours, he appreciated autonomy in a relationship but I always knew how much I was missed when I’d been away.
He was Augustus Gilbert Peter Rabarts, and he was my beautiful grey and white medium haired man of the street whom I called Gus.
He was my home and my constant and he also happened to be my adopted feline.
He was less than a year old when I was heading away for a long weekend, and everyone I knew was going to be with me, so Gus needed his own accommodation for the weekend. Finding a place for him that I was comfortable with was one thing but that moment when I had to leave him was another. I hadn’t realised just how hard it was going to be, to be separated from my boy, to trust another would care for him as I did and to leave a part of me behind, I had tears that I wasn’t ready for and although I got better at drop offs, I never felt any less incomplete driving off without him for those periods away. My attention on return was always on Gus’s collection and navigating the drive home with his crate propped in the middle of the backseat so he could see me and that we were headed home. Gus was always extra snuggly after a trip away and had his ears tuned for the moment the lazy boy feet went up and like a magician would appear on my lap without my comprehension of the how and when.
He turned up in my life when I was 39, I’d lived through all those undiagnosed periods of grief, at a time when friends and family were having and becoming focused on kids, and I was moving (or being moved) further to the rim of the circle. He purred me through anxiety, he nose bumped me back to the present. He cuddled in tight when I needed it and remained aloof when he needed it. We spoke a common language between us, I knew his meows and he knew my movements and the sound of my car.
He was there when I went to sleep and there when I woke up and during covid was often behind my screen or wandering across the keyboard. He and his grey and white fur were literally everywhere. We moved house together. I never showered alone, he sat on the ledge outside the shower to give me a swipe as I entered the shower and then wanted to check nothing was amiss until I was safely out of the shower again. If I’d been swimming in the chlorine, he made a beeline to lick my legs and if I dared not wash my hair and sit in the lounge, he’d take his kingly position atop the sofa and attempt to eat my hair. Chlorine was clearly his catnip and until it was less head massage and more catssault and battery I had to clean that smell right outta my hair.
Gus also played an important role in any potential new partners in the house, and he took it seriously. His views where clear with his dismissal of said intruder and he made it known when someone was taking up prime real estate in the boudoir.
The first I knew that Gus had developed cancer I had returned from a trip away and he was struggling after I picked him up. Enough that I knew he needed immediate attention for what I thought was a really bad furball, denial anybody? Even when he was put straight on to a ventilator, I was more focused on his being more comfortable than the news the Vet had for me when they sat me down to say he had advanced cancer, and simplified, had about 2 months to live. I didn’t hear anything after that, I was shocked, devastated and numb.
I had two months to savour in his company and prepare for his departure, to comfort and ease his decline until I knew it was time. I never wanted that day to come but I wanted less for Gus to suffer.
It’s been 6 months now and sometimes I still think I see his shadow waiting at the front door or hear his heavy feet pad down the hallway. He was there for me, my constant through my roller coaster and that will never change. Gus Gus is a spirit that lives on and has left a large paw print hole in my heart. RIP Gus, you deserve it x
