The Epic of Gilgamesh

O Gilgamesh!  O Epic Cat!

Evil mastermind.

Here's the thing.  In theory, I hate cats.  They're cruel.  (How many other animals play with their food before they eat it?)  They're manipulative.  They're a little bit crazy.  And I strongly believe that they are actually way stupider than dogs.  But they're cute and fuzzy, and they have big eyes and we like it when they purr, so we keep them around.  

In theory, that's how I feel.  But in practice?  I love my cat.  She's not an easy cat to love, but somehow I still do.  She's been my roommate for seven years.  She's been there through seven (human) roommates, one breakup, two plane rides, two cities, and five apartments.  Last month, when I had food poisoning, I was lying on the bathroom floor after five hours of vomiting.  I was trembling, sweaty, spent.  I couldn't move.  I wanted my mom.  Instead, Gilgamesh curled up against me and purred until I fell asleep, and I nearly cried with gratitude.

This is normal for her.  As bratty as she can be and as manipulative and cruel and crazy and dumb as she is, whenever I'm sick, or heartbroken, or have had a terrible day at school, she seems to know, and she always helps.

So this is the story of Gilgamesh, my constant companion for these seven years.  As you've seen, there will be pictures.  There will be a video.  And then I promise never to post about cats again.

The Beginning

Who doesn't love a cat in a box?

We got Gilgamesh when I lived in the Marion Street house.  We went to a big cat adoption fair, and wandered around.  There didn't seem to be a cat that we could agree on, and we thought about just leaving.  But on our last circuit, we saw a gray cat with yellow eyes.  We took turns holding her.  She wasn't affectionate, but she was calm.  Watchful.  She didn't tremble.  I looked at her wide yellow eyes, and said, "This is it.  This is her."

My roommates have mocked me since.  Gilgamesh is beautiful, but about as far from the perfect cat as you could get.  She's a challenge.  But she is totally worth it.

The Name

 

Terrifying.

 Obviously, Gilgamesh is named after the Sumerian epic of Gilgamesh, but there's no real reason,other than that my roommates and I thought Gilgamesh would be a nice name for a cat.  There's something solid and formidable about the way it sounds, although it is difficult to explain to the vet's office when they ask you about it over the phone.  So over the years, she's been Gilly, Gil, Gillsta, the Moosh, and Fatty.  Why Fatty?  Well...

Girth

When we brought her home, she was a very small cat. 

She is still a small cat, in that her frame is small.  But her belly is ENORMOUS, legendary.  No one has ever been able to figure out why.  She has been on a diet for the past six years.  She's active.  But she keeps.  Gaining.  Weight.  There was awhile where I considered getting a cat harness and taking her on walks, but somehow I had a feeling that would turn out about as well as when I wore roller skates to take my dog on a walk when I was in middle school.  (It turned out poorly.)

The funniest thing is that she still doesn't seem to realize how much weight she's gained, even after all these years.  She'll try to jump onto the back of a sofa, only to have to scrabble desperately, and still fall to the floor ungracefully.  She'll race across the floor and try to stop before she hits the wall, only to have her inertia carry her into the wall anyway.  She'll try to drink out of the toilet, overbalance, and fall in.  It is always amazing, hilarious, and a little sad.

The Fire

At one o’clock a.m. on a Friday morning in 2009, I woke gradually to the sound of people pounding on my door, yelling “Get up, get up, you have to get up!  Fire!”  I heard heavy footsteps coming from the ceiling.  Slowly, I became aware that the fire alarm was going off.  It hadn’t woken me up.

I tumbled out of bed, jammed my feet into my clogs, grabbed my puffy coat and my keys, and ran out of my apartment and down the hall.  The fire was clearly on my floor (the ground floor), and I had to run through a giant cloud of smoke to the get out of the building.  I skidded out the door and into the clear, cold November night, and realized, “I left my cat inside.”

I turned to the man holding the door for me.  Numbly, I said it out loud.  “I left my cat inside!”  His response:  “Well, you better go get her!”

Five seconds later, the cameraman died.

The next few minutes were a blur.  I ran back – through the cloud of smoke, thicker this time – to my apartment, unlocked the door, looked for Gilly, realized she was under the couch, dragged her out by her hind leg, grabbed her cat carrier, and ran back out – through the cloud of smoke again, thicker than thick, now – and finally crammed her into her carrying case.  She wasn’t thrilled, but she was alive. 

I forgot my glasses, my laptop, my phone, and my wallet, but I ran back into the burning building for my cat. 

The Danger

IT'S A TRAP.

Even my students know she's dangerous.

Any visitor to the apartment knows that when Gilgamesh sprawls on her back, it does not mean that she wants you to scratch her belly.  It is, in fact, a trap.  The second you try, her front legs will close around your hand like a steel trap, her back legs will flip up and she'll kick wildly at you with her claws.  

This is nothing, though.  A few years ago, she had a UTI, and I had to give her antibiotics every twelve hours.  It is still one of the worst weeks of my life.  At five in the morning and five at night, I would drag her (kicking, clawing) into the bathroom and close the door so she couldn't escape.  I'd swaddle her in a down blanket so the only thing that was sticking out was her head, grab her jaw with one hand, pop it open, force her head back, throw the pill down her gullet, and then rub her throat until she swallowed.  Then I would let go.

I told my students that I'd gotten into a knife fight

.

At this point, she would spit out the pill that she had (as it turns out) fake-swallowed, and the whole process would begin again.

It was horrible, especially because of the low, miserable moans she emitted as I was giving her the pills.  To her, this was a betrayal.  To me, it was keeping her alive. She didn't forgive me for months.

Gilgamesh Learns to Show Affection

Seven years ago, Gilgamesh did not cuddle.  She might very occasionally come near you to get scratched behind the ears, but it was always on her terms.

The first time she sat on my lap, she did it tentatively, as if she wasn't sure how.  She perched uncomfortably on my legs, purring faintly.  I took a picture, because I was pretty sure this would never happen again, and the movement made her leap onto the floor, kicking back against my legs. Now, looking back through my iPhone's photo library, I see countless pictures of Gil lying on my lap, totally asleep, totally comfortable.  

When she's not unconscious, she looks back at me with such an incredible level of trust, blinking slowly and sleepily.  She rubs her head against my hand.  Her purr is so loud, it's earthshaking.

The End -- or rather, Intermission

At the vet on Wednesday.

Gilgamesh has been my roommate for seven years, and last Friday night, I put her on a plane to Ohio to live with my parents.  This is the best of all possible solutions.  I know that my parents will take care of her well, and I'll get to see her when I'm home at Christmas.  But part of me -- the selfish part -- is afraid of what life will be like without my constant companion.  What will happen when I'm sick, or sad?  When I pass out on the couch watching Wall-E for the fifty thousandth time, I won't have my fluffy gray shadow passed out next to me.  When I go on a grading binge, she won't be there to distract me by batting my freshmen's papers across the room.

A few hours before she left.

I'm not going to get a pet in China; I'll be moving around too much, and I don't want another thing to worry about while I'm over there.  But I'm used to having a pet, and the past few days without one have been empty.  While I don't have to clean out the litterbox or endure my morning food-torture (she went on hunger strike recently because she didn't like her diet food), I also don't get to hear the weird chirpy kill noises she makes at the hummingbird by the feeder, or watch her sprawled out in the morning sunlight.

This is what's best for her, and best for me.  That is the truth.  And that is what I'm holding on to.