Gypsy and her Brother Wrestle on an Ugly Comforter
Gypsy Rose Jones, a half-Siamese black and white shorthair, passed away peacefully in her sleep last night, December 4th. She was seventeen years old. She is survived by no-one in her immediate family.
She survived all of her siblings by ten years. She was given to me for Christmas in 1993, and was named during a New Year’s Day acid trip in 1994, when we determined that the next image on a television would determine her name. Gypsy Rose Lee came up, but she could have just as easily been named Morley Safer. Many people ask how she stayed alive so many years, staying kitten-small and kitten-cute for her whole life. The answer is that she was kept alive through the twin furnaces of kibble and hatred.
If you ever met her, you already know that she hated you with the white-hot passion of a thousand suns. Perhaps you also bear a whisker-thin white scar where she attacked you while you stroked her glossy black coat. She also hated and feared her roommate Cosey, whom she lived with for 10 years and who never touched her, but whom she detested to her last moments.
Words To The Wise
Any interaction Gypsy had with a new person was begun with my advisory motto: “Ears go back means I’ll attack.” My friends used to say things like “Well, you can’t tell what kind of abuse she went through before you adopted her.” The sad truth is, she came to me straight from her litter. She only ever knew me. Anything that’s wrong with her is my fault. I don’t know what I did, I mean, I used to make her jump through a hoop for POUNCE brand moist cat treats. Maybe that’s enough.
I know that she really hated riding cross-country from Texas to Oregon in the back of a Nissan, where even though she was medicated, she meowed every minute for the whole drive.
Meow. Meow. Meow.
The meows only decreased slightly in intensity and volume when she had a snootful of kitty Valium, which is the same as human Valium, but I did not tell her that. She already hated me by then. She really hated her brother Biggles, a Boston Terrier whom she outlived by several months. I think surviving Mr. Biggles was her ultimate revenge, unless it was dying with her eyes open, which was incredibly creepy. I think the only things she liked were catnip, leftover Thanksgiving turkey, and sitting on top of the warm, smooth surface of the stereo receiver. Fare thee well, Gypsy.