A Cat Named Georgie

In the summer of 2005 I moved back to Philadelphia after a few years in Paris. A few months later I adopted Carlo here (brown suit) and I told him all about a French cat named Georgie. Carlo loves the tale and often insists that I repeat it. Tonight he delivered the legend to his fellow felines --in Meowan, of course. His side-kick Laura Earle kept a close watch on the audience and relished their facial expressions. I don't speak Meowan, so I'll tell you about Georgie as I remember him.

I had a job in the city and I would commute from my little apartment in Noisy-Le-Sec, which is two stops on the Magenta Line from Gare du Nord. Sometimes I would ride my bike and I walked it a few times, but usually I took the train. Just before I turned the last corner before I got home, there was a walled garden where a young family would put food out for the street cats. I liked to watch the mother cat and her babies eat on top of the wall. I started putting food there myself, but the kids put out a note saying, "Stay off our wall!" Months passed and the feral kittens grew, but I didn't see much of them.

One day I was looking out my back window and I noticed a black & white cat sitting on the rear wall, looking up at me. I gleaned some food from the refrigerator and put it in the back yard on a small dish. The cat waited for me to go back inside, then gobbled down all the grub. That evening I bought a sack of cat food and began feeding my new friend every day. About a week later, I sat on a stone bench and put the dish next to me, then waited. If he wanted to eat, it would cost him a head-scratch this time. Sure enough, the cat crept up to his dish and ate while I petted him and scratched his furry head.

This was happening in September and October, when my furry friend was probably around ten months old. We settled into a routine, and he was always there in the afternoon waiting for me on the wall, and I always collected my little affections.

Then in mid-November, I put the food out as usual but there was no cat. Three days went by without a trace. I thought, "Well, either he was adopted or he got squashed by a Peugeot."

I was brushing my teeth early on a Friday afternoon when I heard a long moan through my rear window. I looked out, and there was my chat du rue, stumbling across the yard, falling on his side after each two or three agonized steps. "Mmmmmrrrraaaaaaoooowwwww!!!"

I ran down to the yard and snatched up my little buddy and brought him inside. He kept trying to stand but kept falling on the kitchen floor. I felt along his legs and looked all over his body, but there seemed to be no broken bones or blood anywhere on him.

I got on the phone to everyone I knew in France who spoke English, and before long I had some useful advice on veterinary care I could afford. The vet school would take my boy free of charge if I got him in there before 5 PM. Unfortunately, the place was way inside of Paris and I'd have to change trains a few times after getting to the city. It was not likely I'd get there on time. Plan B was to just bring him to the vet in Noisy, which happened to be open that evening.

I put the yowling cat in a cardboard box and carried him through the streets in a steady rain. A young veterinarian who was clearly not the boss, and a young woman who seemed to be in training received me and the groaner. I explained the situation in my best (clumsy) French, and they looked him over good. The verdict was that he probably had gotten into a poison trap, put out for rats in sheds or basements, but commonly the bane of street cats.

They said that they would hydrate the cat with an intravenous line, and if he did not have too much organ damage, they'd castrate him the next day and give him back to me. If he was too badly damaged they'd just put him down.

The cost would be more than I even had. I asked, how much for just the basic life-saver? I promised to bring him back in to be fixed next time. They said OK, 90 euros was the best they could do, dead or alive. It was about 3/4 of what I had in the bank. I agreed.

Next day I bought a cat carrier and a bag of litter. I already had some cheap cat food. I reported to the vet's office in the afternoon and to my delight, there was my brave critter, all cleaned up and standing on his own four feet! I thanked them profusely and brought my boy home.

I was not supposed to have any pets in the apartment, but this was urgent. I named him Georgie that night, after the son of George Brown, a long-dead anarchist of Philadelphia who I'd researched and written about during the preceding year. George Brown Jr, was born in 1892 and had an idyllic childhood, but he returned from WW1 shell-shocked and alcoholic, leading a long and dreary life thereafter.

Night fell, and the transition began. Georgie paced the floors growling. He avoided me and only nibbled at his food. I went to bed and in the pitch dark, Georgie started kneading the comforter on my bed with his paws, and suddenly I realized he was about to have a crap! I turned on the light, grabbed him, and he pooped along the hallway as I carried him to his box. It turned out that the poison had made him constipated and this was his painful moment of clearing the pipes.

From that time on, Georgie always went in his box and very quickly he became my best friend. I would arrive home from work and lie down on the couch and softly say his name. He immediately jumped up and lay on my chest, and I'd pet his purring body and stare into his dark, round eyes. Georgie had long fur, mostly black with white tuxedo markings.

We spent the winter and the spring together, but I was getting discouraged about settling in France permanently. Finally I made the sad decision to leave and I booked my flight for late June of 2005. At that point I had painted myself into a corner: I had a month to find a new home for Georgie.

All the animal shelters were either full or closing down for lack of funding, not only in Paris but in all its suburbs as well. I brainstormed on where I might leave him. In the Bois de Boulogne, where the prostitutes might feed him? Along the Canal de l'Ourcq, along which are many empty factories, and I would ride my bike? Or off in the country?

Or in front of the old cat lady's home? There was a hardcore cat lady in Noisy-le-Sec. She walked the streets at 3 a.m. with a large bag of cat food, making her rounds. I used to listen to her roaring advice about Georgie under the streetlamps.

None of these ideas were appealing. To bring him with me was complicated too. A 10-euro passport and a clean bill of health from a vet, then depending on his weight, he'd either go in the hold (a death sentence) or under my seat. All that was daunting for a pauper.

What will become of my brave and fuzzy boy?

TO BE CONTINUED! For my next blip I hope to find my picture of Georgie, if it's still around here somewhere.