The truth is out there. The Internet — and Facebook, in particular — were created to disseminate photos and videos of cats.
On Thursday, a search of “cats and Facebook” yielded 184 million results. The same search on Friday produced 234 million results. Who knows what the number is today.
I got a lesson in the feline power of Facebook recently when my daughters’ cat, George, died at the ripe old age of 18.
George “belonged” to my oldest daughter, Amy, after she talked her mother, Anne, into getting her a kitten. But he made himself right at home with my youngest daughter, Emily, too. (Anne was the one who handled most of the care and feeding, of course.)
George was an orange-and-white cat who grew up to be a large, occasionally ill-tempered brute. He liked to fight, too. At a young age, he acquired a scar on his nose after a run-in with an enemy cat.
He was very different from the previous Corder cat, Spooky. She was a smallish female who rarely made a sound.
George “talked” constantly. His meows grew longer and louder as he aged. He would occasionally yowl along when someone played the piano or sang a song. He especially liked Christmas carols.
Spooky was unhappy when the kitten George arrived. Note to everybody: Cats do not get lonely. A cat would be fine with being the only cat in the world.
The incumbent cat would occasionally swat George to let him know who was the boss. Even after George grew up, Spooky was still the top cat.
However, they came to co-exist peacefully and often napped together. Spooky often groomed George. After she died at age 20, he spent the rest of his life looking increasingly scruffy.
Amy originally named the cat Pounce. Her mother didn’t like that name, so he was renamed George after 1998’s Hurricane Georges.
I thought Pounce was a fitting name for the cat. For instance, one Thanksgiving, Anne and the girls left their holiday turkey on the kitchen table when they went out to run an errand. They returned home to find that George had pounced on the turkey and eaten a big chunk of it.
George usually slept in Amy’s bed until she went to the Mississippi School of the Arts during her junior year in high school. After that, she decided she was allergic to the cat and evicted him from her room. She still loved George, but usually kept him at arm’s length.
Amy got George after her mother and I divorced. But I saw him often when I was at their house.
When Anne and the girls were out of town, it was my job to go over and feed George. Several times, he bit or clawed me when I didn’t do something to his liking.
George was also a source of comedy for me. I was always making jokes about him to the girls. I had many nicknames for the cat over the year, but I’m under orders from the highest authority — Amy and Emily —– not to repeat any of them in this column.
Late in 2013, I became seriously ill and missed about three months of work. Anne and the girls insisted that I come down to their house in Madison. I happily agreed because I couldn’t drive or take care of myself.
After I had been there a few days, George started to warm up to me. He even insisted on sleeping in my bed, which wasn’t a welcome development as he still sometimes bit and scratched me. He often planted himself on one of my pillows. It’s tough to go to sleep when you’re worried that a temperamental feline might bite your head.
In spite of my misgivings, George and I came to like one another during the time we shared the same home. And a few months later, I visited Madison one weekend while Anne and my daughters were out of town. I found that George had accidentally been trapped in one of the bedrooms of Anne’s house for a couple of days. After I rescued him, George really loved me. When I visited, the cat would often sleep with me.
For the past few months, George had suffered from kidney problems. He lost a lot of weight and became weak. A couple of weeks ago, at the veterinarian’s recommendation, Anne had George put to sleep.
Anne, Amy and I each posted Facebook tributes to George’s passing. Thanks to all of my animal-loving friends and relatives on Facebook, my post got the most responses.
“People think that was your cat,” an indignant Anne said. “He was my cat.”
I think she was kidding. But I can see how people might think that. I posted several photos of George on Facebook over the years. That crazy cat is in both my profile and cover photos on my Facebook page.
But George was my cat, too, at least on occasional weekends and holidays. And he was the greatest Corder cat ever — at least until the next one..
• Contact Charles Corder at 581-7241 or ccorder@gwcommonwealth.com.
