Gandolf (standard:Inspirational stories, 1801 words)
Author: GXD	Added: Aug 04 2007	Views/Reads: 3335/2161	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Innocent and playful as a kitten, Gandolf learned how to love life with a passion, until...

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

Unfortunately, the branch was much too high.  Rocks and sidewalk covered
the ground.  The fall knocked it senseless, and an instant later, 
Gandolf was right beside the squirrel, sniffing, probing with his 
whiskers, his tongue, his wet little nose.  The squirrel was barely 
alive. 

Very carefully -- because the squirrel tasted something awful and the
hairs got between his teeth --  Gandolf took a firm grip on its 
backbone, and half-dragged, half carried it up the stairway to the 
screen door.  He knew it belonged on the other side of that door, but 
hadn't worked out the mystery of the doorknob yet.  Gandolf waited. 

From time to time, the squirrel gave a helpless little kick, while
Gandolf sat beside it, holding it down with a paw.  Despite his 
excitement and the dawning realization of his first kill, Gandolf never 
lost his aplomb.  Over the next hour, he washed his paws and ears a 
dozen times.  By that time, the poor squirrel had expired. 

When the door opened, Gandolf rested like a sphinx, stretched out beside
his prey, purring.  His tail switched from side to side slowly, with a 
crack-the-whip flourish at the tip.  He looked up without rising, as if 
to say, "Here's a gift for you."  Two arms lifted him and smothered him 
with caresses.  Gandolf felt such gratitude, his own purring left him 
short of breath. 

After that day, Gandolf was different.  On some days, when the quality
of cat food left something to be desired, he would hunt up a picnic 
lunch: the mole sleeping under the tree, or maybe that little 
black-and-white snake for dessert. 

When the other cats came near, he made a noise like a miniature air raid
siren.  They never nipped him or cuffed him on the neck any more. Even 
when he bit, his attack was exceedingly gentle, measured.  Yet, every 
now and then he would clamp down firmly on a finger and demonstrate the 
power of his feline jaws.  It probably reminded him of the big, heavy 
squirrel, dragging bump-bump-bump up those high steps. 

The lazy days of spring turned into hot summer.  Gandolf dreamed of
flying with the birds, up to the trees, down to the sweet-smelling 
mulch pile, onto the eaves and along the gutters.  One day it rained 
and Gandolf stretched out on the sill sniffing the acrid aftermath of 
lightning, the humid aroma of fermenting earth.  Each peal of thunder 
was a challenge, and Gandolf answered it with a roar, slapping his tail 
on the sill and fastidiously licking a tuft of hair underneath his 
forearm. 

Today was midsummer's day.  Gandolf had reached the ripe age of seven
months and found himself drawn irresistibly to the adventures of 
outdoors.  An indefinable craving left him feeling excited, full of 
play.  The two big mama cats were missing.  So when the door opened a 
crack, Gandolf was outside in a flash and up his favorite tree.  An 
instant later, he spotted another cat coming down a limb, switching her 
tail in a most provocative way.  Gandolf felt such a thrill, he 
couldn't decide whether to cry out, leap at the apparition, flee or 
play dead.  The other cat resolved his problem: she nimbly leaped over 
Gandolf and began climbing one of the other limbs.  Gandolf gathered 
his courage and followed.  He had no idea what was up that limb. 

Moments later, Gandolf stood side by side with a rust-red pussycat who
was purring like an outboard motor.  She was lean in a feline sort of 
way, with very long whiskers and hazelstraw eyes.  Three red bars 
crossed her chest, while five red bars adorned her tail.  A 
sophisticated cat, perhaps even a seductive cat.  An especially "pussy" 
cat, totally unlike any possible "tom" cat.  Gandolf brushed her 
whiskers with his own and gave a soft "meow".  Puss returned the caress 
and snuggled up close, before leaping away. 

Unfortunately, the short limb was not really wide enough for both of
them.  Gandolf suddenly found himself hanging upside down, clinging to 
strips of bark with his sharp claws.  It was a very long way to the 
ground, he noticed, and began to think his way out of the predicament.  
The red cat asked "meow?" several times until Gandolf tentatively 
lifted a paw to gain a more solid purchase.  That was his undoing. 
Before he fell six inches, Gandolf was right side up, legs braced, paws 
crouching, ready to hit the ground running.  He was already planning 
his turnaround, back up the tree to the red-haired puss.  Bright-eyed, 
wind fluttering through his silver fur, Gandolf was equal to the 
challenge -- a born survivor eager for new adventures.  He spread his 
paws like a flying squirrel and drifted downward like a parachute. 

It has been said there is no justice.  He must be a fool who believes in
nine lives. Gandolf knew that inherently.  Only people create values 
and institutions, monuments to vain hope and delusions of omnipotence.  
Cats know only that life is right now, and if you can't say "life is 
right now" then you are nowhere -- maybe asleep or unconscious or dead. 


He never felt the bee bee slam into his skull, just above the right eye,
shattering his magic spirit.  Never again would Gandolf relax in the 
arms of a little girl, purring in her ear, feeling her love.  Never 
again would he greet his sometime friend with big strange-smelling 
fingers and knuckles perfect for chewing.  All the intensity of life, 
the promise of nine lives, the softness, the affection ... replaced by 
a cold little copper pellet. 

*     *     *     *     * 

COMMENTARY ON GANDOLF 

Mary:  Here's how I feel about the last paragraph.  The reader has had
four pages -- long enough to identify with Gandolf and to care about 
what happens to him.  When a reader is faced with the blunt reality of 
Gandolf's sudden death, I want her/him to feel shocked.  Hurt.  Sad.  
Empty.  Perhaps s/he is disappointed, expecting a happy ending, or a 
spiritual one.  I refuse to do that.  Omar Khayyam once said, 

"O threats of Hell and Hopes of Paradise! "One thing at least is certain
-- this Life flies; "One thing is certain, and the rest is Lies; "The 
Flower that once has blown for ever dies." 

Gandolf is dead.  His death is real and very painful to me.  Whenever a
cat dies, it affects me deeply.  In the last paragraph, I tried to 
capture this feeling with the fewest words. 

Seattle WA, Aug. 2007 Copyright 1990 Gerald X. Diamond 


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