Lester appeared on the wall around my property in June of 1988. He seemed friendly and anxious for some affection, so I reached up and carried him into the yard. To my surprise he didn't seem to have any inclination to leave, so I put out a cardboard box. He was perfectly content to live in the box for several days, and there was no indication that he had anywhere else to go or that he was the object of a neighborhood search. So in he came, and I had another cat.

The story he told was difficult to believe. Lester asserted that at one time he was the General Manager of the Waldorf Astoria in New York City. He had been very good at his career, and was responsible for a number of the improvements that brought this venerable old hotel into the Modern Age. As an example, it was at Lester's initiative that the rooms were wired for computer access, long before this became de rigueur in upscale business-oriented accommodations. Alas, he had been fired merely because one of his ideas had not had a positive reception from the clientele: he had arranged that each evening a maid would put a chocolate-covered mouse on everyone's pillow as a pre-bedtime snack.

I was skeptical of this story until 1996, when I had occasion to attend the annual Stereophile audio show.  That year it was coincidentally at the Waldorf Astoria. There in one of the hallways was the inevitable collection of managerial oil portraits, mostly of rotund oldish white guys in suits as one might expect. And sure enough, amongst them was a gorgeous portrait of Lester. If it weren't something like 30x40", I might have purloined the painting and smuggled it out of the hotel and back here to California. But the reader can be assured that Lester's story appears to check out.

For the first ten years he was with us, Lester was the stereotypical friendly orange tabby. If there was a visitor, Lester would quickly be in the person's lap. If there was a bag on the floor, Lester would occupy it. Ditto for boxes, no matter how excessively small. He seemed to have a real predisposition for stepladders; if I brought a ladder inside to access a high light or dust the cathedral ceilings, Lester loved it - often climbing to the top, other times sleeping on one of the rungs. He's always been a gentle and good natured creature, and has been totally well-behaved.  Even people who don't particularly like cats find it hard to resist this sweetie.

The last several years, to the present, he suddenly changed and became a recluse. He now spends 95% of his time in one of the spare bedrooms, rarely venturing into the rest of the house and no longer going outside very often. We liken him to Elvis or to Howard Hughes. He's happy if someone goes into the bedroom and spends some time with him, and still has a nice purr once he gets revved up to speed. But gone are the days of being outgoing and friendly. I really can't explain what happened; perhaps the current group of other cats have overwhelmed or intimidated him. He had always been quite close to the two cats I brought from Santa Barbara in 1987, Havoc (recently deceased as of this writing) and Sludge, who passed away about 3 or 4 years ago. But he never developed any sort of rapport with my current clowder.

So poor old Lester lives a life of isolation. His youthful brilliant orange is quite a bit muted these days, but one would have to say he's still quite handsome. He gets less attention and affection than any of the others, just by virtue of not being conveniently around, but he's chosen that for himself. At 15 plus, he seems content, and I can say that he used to be a really classy cat with a lot of personality.

Update!

In August of 2003, after years in the spare bedroom, Lester suddenly moved to the master bedroom. As before, he rarely leaves the bedroom although he'll go outside once or twice a day and seems to enjoy a few minutes in the driveway or on one of the patios. He anxiously awaits company in his new location, head-butts anyone who sits down on the bed, hoping to get a prolonged head rub, and is reasonably tolerant of the other cats. At night, he enjoys getting under the covers for a while.  In the master bedroom, there's a lot more interaction than before, which is a pleasure for both Lester and myself.  We'll see how long this unexpected change of habitat goes on.

Coda

In the summer of 2003, Lester's respiration rate had increased quite a bit.  Extensive tests revealed a cat in superb condition for his age, and no indication of a problem.  Out of desperation, we took him for high-tech testing, and a CT scan revealed a large liver tumor.  Additional testing revealed that surgery was a possibility, although the size of the tumor and the advanced age made it risky.  We gambled.

He came through the surgery quite well, and went home in late November.  We fed him a liquid food every four hours, 24 hours a day, through a tube going through his nose and down the throat.  Oddly enough, this wasn't as big a deal as might have been expected.  A one-week checkup revealed that he started to turn yellow, a certain sign that too much of the liver had had to be removed for poor Lester to survive.  We hoped that his time would be weeks or months, and not days.

On December 10th, I came home from work after a big party celebrating my 30 years with my company.  Lester happily crawled into my lap.  A few minutes later, completely out of the blue, he had a major seizure.  He was rushed up to the surgical facility, barely breathing.  Lester did not respond to the emergency reatment, and had in fact turn decidedly worse.  They recommended and asked for permission to euthanize, which we sadly gave.

He was a gentle, loving cat.  We had him two days over 15½ years, and had considered December 8th to be his birthday, as he had been estimated to be 6 months old when he wandered into our lives on June 8th, 1988.  They just don't come any nicer than Moe Lester.