Pippin, 2002-2019

Our dear little Pippin passed away at the vet's office this morning at the age of nearly 17. He had suddenly become listless and ceased eating about four days ago; at first we hoped that some other food would tempt him, but he kept becoming rapidly more in distress. An exam revealed fast growing cancer, which hadn't been there on his checkup two months ago. So there wasn't much life left in him, and it was time to let him go.

Pippin originally came to fill our hearts in the place of the late great Severian. Seven had been born wild, but after initial suspicion had become a most loving cat. Pippin was a fostered cat who had also been born wild, but was put up for adoption instead of the initial plan of releasing him. We hoped he'd go through the same life cycle as Seven, but it didn't work out that way.

Pippin was never a very active cat; indeed, he often resembled a giant orange slug. He always remained shy and suspicious, especially of me, probably because I'd so often picked up and carried around the orange slug when it was a kitten. But he did crave love like other cats, just on his own terms. If B. would sit at the left end of the living room couch, and nowhere else, and reach out only with her left hand, he'd let her pet him, and to brush him with the wire brush, which he really loved (and desperately needed: we accumulated several all-fur cats' worth by brushing Pippin). Sometimes I could persuade him to play with the peacock feather by standing up on the staircase and leaning over the cat tree with the feather dangling down: I was far enough away from him that he thought it was safe.

But what Pippin really wanted, and never got, was for his companion female cat, first Pandora and then Maia, to groom him. He would lower his head towards them, but they never took the hint. Pandora, who was his senior, treated him with lofty disdain, but he worshiped her and was most distressed when she died. The junior Maia was at least friendlier; she and Pippin could often be seen sitting on the back of the couch together.

Because the original intention had been to release Pippin into the wild, his ear had been notched to show that he had been neutered. This had led the foster cat carer to name him Nacho. When she picked him up (sluggish even then) and crooned the song "Nacho Man" (after the Village People, of course) at him, I muttered to B., "We're changing his name." So we called him Pippin, after Tolkien's youngest and most impetuous hobbit.

May he be happy, and playful, and groomed wherever he has gone.

"Born feral, died loved" - B.