Whitman officially became a Schwegler as a kitten. He was a surprise for Sam. Though we had our own well on her way (I was pregnant with T at the time), Whitman and Curie (our other kitty I brought home that day) quickly became our babies. We were seriously the people who would talk about our cats to people like they were members of our family. Which, of course, they were. From day one.
He was such a funny little guy. His first day in our home, Whitman sat in the box all day, yowling, because he didn't want to be in the box anymore, but was too scared to come out. If you tried to remove him, he'd hiss like crazy. I cut a little "door" in the side of the box so he could easily come out whenever he was ready. I can still see his gorgeous little face, as he stood there, right in that hole, and cried. It was so sad and crazy-adorable all at the same time.
He's such a sweet-tempered boy. As a kitten, Curie would whip his butt all the time, because she was simply fiercer in nature. But that never stopped him from trying. He would prowl up and jump her from behind, only to be snatched in her front legs while she pummelled him with her back legs.
Every time. After she'd beat him good (not really hurting him, of course), he'd finally wiggle away and run into some random hiding place. A little while later, we'd get a replay. He never seemed to get sick of being beat up by a girl. So funny.
Whitman survived moves from Boise to Rigby to Kansas to Michigan (where he lived with Grandma Deedie for three years while we were in school) to Illinois where he rejoined us once we settled in a house again. This was a huge adjustment for him, being around kids again. And this time, we had
two instead of just one. And B...let's just say she loves hard. Whitman spent a lot of his day sleeping under the entertainment armoire, where he could be near the family, but no one could really get at him.
As soon as the kids went to bed, I'd take a book out to the couch where he could see me, but wouldn't feel threatened. A few minutes later, he'd join me and we'd have cuddle time. It worked well for us. I mean, really, he's a senior cat, and he'd sleep almost all day anyway, kids or no kids. He'd come out at night and do his romping and snuggling...it was a good system.
And then came Sadie.
She never hurt him. Not once. At times I thought he was getting used to her. And he maybe would have. But she just kept getting
bigger. And, the more interesting this ever-growing-canine-giant found the feline of the household, the less we saw of Whitman. He's always been good at hiding.
Well, I'd go in and talk to him, brush him, feed him, take care of his needs. Except one. He wouldn't hang out with the family for more than a few minutes, and he could never relax while he was with us. So, most days, I'd just leave him to hang out on his perch on top of our boxes in the storage room. He seemed content there, and as long as I could see him and knew he was okay, I had to be happy with it. Well, not happy, maybe, but what could I do?
Then Grandma Deedie came for a visit. Seeing Whitman on his perch was very unsettling to her. She told us about her dog Bridgette who was misbehaving in ways she never had before. The catalyst? It seemed Bridgette missed Whitman.
Sigh.
She wanted to take him home with her.
I didn't want to let him go. T didn't want to let him go. B didn't want to let him go. But how do you contend with the possibility of making happy two discontented animals? It just didn't make sense to keep him here.
So, we said goodbye to Whitman.
Right before Whitman had to leave, we shut ourselves up with him, sans Sadie, to give the girls some good cuddle time with kitty. Whether this was beneficial or not, I'm not exactly sure, because once he was in the carrier, T's tears started. And didn't stop. For about an hour and a half. After which she continued to talk about him for the rest of the day. Oh, how that girl knows how to bleed my heart...
When Whitman and his things were all packed up in Grandma's car, we sat in the driveway and pet him one last time. T and I sobbed, as B hollered "Whitman can't go!" over and over. (Man, I felt like a piece-of-crap mom.) I choked out to T through my tears again why we were doing this. She nodded. Of course she understood. She's such a good-hearted, reasonable person. (But, how much does that matter when you are breaking your kid's heart?) She turned her swimming eyes on Grandma and got out, "C-c-can we come visiiiit him soon?" Grandma said, "Of course!" which made T feel a little better. Then we got up, moved out of the way, and watched Grandma drive off with our kitty.
Then we promptly fell on the grass and cried some more. Several minutes, lots more tears, many, many hugs and kisses later, we finally decided we needed some McDonald's. (I'm a terrible mother, soothing my children with fast food, but I'd just gotten rid of a beloved pet. You're a stronger woman than me if you could have said no.)
We're doing okay now, though we miss our Whitman. Take good care of him, Grandma. We'll come and see him soon.
