I have held off posting about this special boy for a long time because I knew that I would get emotional, but I don't think I can postpone any longer. He was a joint effort by extraordinary friends almost exactly a year ago, when his namesake, the cat who was my heart and soul, had taken a turn for the worse.
That story began in 2007 when I was a newly minted adult living at 10,000 feet on a mountain in Wyoming. Winter begins early there, and we had the first measurable snowfall on September 21. Fast forward to the end of October, and there was a couple of feet of snow that wouldn't melt until the following spring. I lived and worked at a mountain lodge, and one of the other employees told me to keep an eye out for an orange cat, of all things, that had been spotted running around the cabins. I saw him at a distance later that day, wading through the deep snow. He would cry when he saw humans, but try to get closer than thirty feet or so, and he was gone.
That went on for a couple of weeks. Due to the plethora of (potentially dangerous) wildlife, no one could just leave food out for him, so we were kind of stuck. Late one morning, though, the dogs spotted him and chased him under the front steps of the lodge. Snow drifts kept them out of his hiding place, but he had nowhere to escape. The steps had open risers, so I (like an idiot) reached in to try to grab him. The scar on my thumb where he bit me finally faded a couple of years ago. I went and got my boss's leather work gloves and tried again. He clawed and spit and bit and hissed, but couldn't get through the gloves and my winter layers. I had a brief moment of thinking, "Holy crap, now what do I do with this enraged furball?" The most incredible thing happened, though, once I had him pinned to my chest. His whole body relaxed and he almost immediately began purring.
Intending to take him to the humane society in Laramie once the weekend was over, I put him in my cabin with my little black orphan kitten, Tuff. And the rest is history. The two bonded almost immediately and after only two days, I couldn't imagine separating them. I named him Tumble because he blew in on the heels of a storm like a tumbleweed. A couple months later, both would make the last minute trip back to Ohio when things on the mountain soured for me.
For more than 16 years after, he was my best friend. He and Tuff were inseparable until we lost Tuff in 2015 to a heart condition. He would come when I called his name from anywhere in the house, loved lap sitting for as long as I was still, and was just generally the best little fur machine (holy cow, did he shed) absolutely anyone could ask for. He was terrified of men and had a little bit of a deformed lower jaw, along with the graveliest purr I've ever heard. He would "scold" my mother whenever she sneezed with little indignant meows. Every day when I got home from work, he would be waiting inside the front door to greet me. His heart was huge, and he adopted any kitten ever brought home and mothered them, even if he hated the little turds initially. And any time I was ever sad or angry or depressed, he was extra insistent on snuggles.
In the fall of 2022, Tumble started going what seemed to be intermittently blind. The vets at the time believed it to be age and possibly diabetes related, though his bloodwork always came back amazing. He was fully blind by late winter. In March of 2023, he abruptly became very wobbly and had a hard time even standing. Multiple vet trips later, with symptoms coming and going, a brain tumor was found behind his eyes. There was a brief attempt to try to ease the symptoms with medication, but I let him go on April 21, 2023.
With all that said, now you might understand why, as I was listening to the race call of the Juvenile at the end of a crazy shift at work, I was shaking while Em called the stretch run and burst into tears when she announced the result of the photo. The sweetest, best boy ever lives on in a SIM horse, complete with a black cat named Tuff for a companion.
