Bolliver T. Slobberguts, R.I.P.

Bolliver!

The cat with no shortage of attitude or angry claws has expired, or rather, has been expired. His end was rather sudden and somewhat anticlimactic considering how much physical pain he'd unleashed over the years, but all the same he'll be remembered and missed as the SOB that he was.


Bolliver was an asshole - a little shit, no doubt - one of the most cantankerous and unruly beasts ever to grace the form of feline that I've had the mixed pleasure of knowing. He was prone to sudden and extreme acts of unprovoked violence, though on occasion the violence was quite mutual (hey! it was self-defense!) Always ornery and rarely affectionate, you were much more likely to get injured by Bolliver then you were to have a sweet moment of safe cuddling. But as assholes go, he was a handsome asshole, and so it was very difficult for me to ignore him completely, though it almost invariably backfire in some horrible cry of pain and bloodshed. Nevertheless, Bolliver provided some good stories and a few decent pictures.

Bolliver was discovered in Kokomo, IN by my mother and her niece (my cousin), Heidi while on a walk through the neighborhood near my grandmother's home. A loud meowing was issuing from an abandoned house, and when my mother and Heidi approached, they found Bolliver trapped in a windowsill between a glass window and the screen, crying out for help. A thin and gangly kitten, they saved him from this bleak situation and my mom took him home to Mt. Prospect. Soon enough, the trouble began.

Even as an adorable kitten, he was quite ready to use his claws in a way that was a tad more malevolent than a kitty-cat normally does. It was more than just playing rough, Bolliver was quite ready, willing and able to show that he could inflict damage at will to those that disturbed him. At age 1 (or whatever his age was post house-abandonment) my mom already felt like he was a bit too difficult to keep at home. So when I announced that I was moving into a loft in downtown Chicago, she readily handed him off to me for adoption.

Life at the loft could be a book in and of itself: the chaos, the back-stabbing, the drug-induced laughs and the literal catfights. Bolliver was one of four cats that were being cared for at the loft but there was no doubt that he was the one that ruled the roost. But aside from kicking much feline ass in the name of claiming himself king of the castle, he was always ready to inflict damage on the human tenants therein either. The owner of the loft, D, always hated Bolliver because he would occasionally get at his toddler son, Cassidy, who didn't know any better and would try pick him up only to be in tears seconds later. One night, after everyone had drifted off to a drunken sleep, D went to the bathroom and sat down on the can to relieve himself. Without any warning or provocation, Bolliver leaped onto D's bare back from atop the wall (we didn't have enough dry-wall to build up to the ceilings) and dug his nails right in. D grabbed Bolliver and threw him over the opposite wall, cussing something horrible, and Bolliver strutted away, unphased, probably even a little satisfied with a job well done.

But the most spectacular relationship that Bolliver cultivated was that with Bowls MacLean. Bowls also had a cat living at the loft (Big Daddy, who, unlike his name, was neither big nor very authoritative). Pretty much from the word go, Bolliver and Bowls hated each other, or at least Bolliver hated Bowls and Bowls reacted accordingly. One golden moment was the day Bowls was provoking Bolliver from behind a curtain in the loft's "living room" area (in this case, lack of drywall forced us to use blankets in lieu of walls). Bowls was poking at Bolliver with the remote for the TV, when suddenly, two razor-sharp claws emerged from behind the curtains and dug into Bowls' hands, drawing blood and more than a mild scream from my hapless friend.



After Bolliver and I left the loft and returned to live in Mt. Prospect with my brother, Chuck, Bowls would come over to visit and even still would invariably stir up hatred in Bolliver without even approaching him. Bolliver would even go so far as to stalk Bowls and hide behind doorways to attack his feet when he'd walk by. Bowls later confided in me that he would occasionally have anxiety dreams in which Bolliver had grown into bobcat proportions and would be enclosed with him in tight quarters.

But for all his anger and eagerness to behave violently, he took to domestication in the suburbs very happily. He liked being the master of his own domain, and my brother and I pretty much did his bidding as he wished. He had a brief stint as an outdoor cat, which I'm quite sure he loved as much as the birds and squirrels and other animals he tormented grew to hate. And in spite of his vindictive swipes at humanity at large, Bolliver was a handsome creature who took pride in his personal hygene and was quite soft to the touch. He became somewhat complacent, though no less arrogant or cocky, and his muscle slowly turned to flab. Eventually, I moved out of the townhouse and he became my brother's cat, which was fine since he got along with him with less hostility than I did. And when my brother moved out of the townhouse, himself, Bolliver, of course, was part of the baggage that came to his new residence in Lombard, IL.

I didn't see Bolliver for many years after my brother moved. But fortunately, I did fit in a visit this last Christmas which is where the bulk of these picts were taken. Bolliver was still an asshole, which I took to be a comfort. His hair was a little more matted and it didn't have the irresistible aroma of a show cat's mane, but by all indications it looked like he was going to be around for a good while yet. But this was not to be...


Bolliver had "slowed down" according to my brother, and in the end it was the cancer that started in his liver and spread to his lungs that drew him to a stop. He was put down shortly after the discovery of the cancer, and sadly, Chuck, his true owner, wasn't able to be there at the end due to him being out of touch while this was going on. He was on a houseboat with my dad and incommunicado while my mom, sister and his roommate sorted out the unfortunate situation. But, in the end, the prick had a good life considering his inauspiciuos roots as a homeless kitty trapped in an abandoned house in the economically depressed town of Kokomo, IN. And, in spite of all the scratches he inflicted, he'll be missed terribly by me, my brother, and even Bowls MacLean.

So long, Bolliver... thanks for the scars.