Gina Gershon - In Search of Cleo

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Copyright 2012 by Gina Gershon

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LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Gershon, Gina.

In search of Cleo : how I found my pussy and lost my mind / Gina Gershon.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-101-60042-9

1. Gershon, Gina. 2. Women cat ownersCaliforniaLos AngelesBiography. 3. Cat owners CaliforniaLos AngelesBiography. 4. CatsCaliforniaLos AngelesBiography. 5. Pet loss CaliforniaLos Angeles. 6. Human-animal relationshipsCaliforniaLos Angeles. I. Title.

SF442.82.G47A3 2012

636.80092'9dc23

2012006598

SET IN BAUER BODONI AND ARCHER

DESIGNED BY JUDITH STAGNITTO ABBATE / ABBATE DESIGN

While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Penguin is commited to publishing works of quality and integrity. In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers; however, the story, the experiences, and the words are the authors alone.

I have said that cats serve as Familiars, psychic companions. They are certainly company. The Familiars of an old writer are his memories, scenes and characters from his past, real or imaginary. A psychoanalyst would say Im simply projecting these fantasies onto my cats. Yes, quite simply and quite literally, cats serve as sensitive screens for quite precise attitudes when cast in appropriate roles.

WILLIAM BURROUGHS

Tis strangebut true; for truth is always strange; Stranger than fiction

LORD BYRON

CHAPTER ONE

The Set Up

S O I LOST MY CAT. Well, actually he was quasiabducted by my hippy-dippy assistant Cassandra , who grilled vegetables, taught yoga, and spelled her name with a star. She exuded positive energy, and I believed that all these attributes made her a responsible mammal. Unfortunately I was wrong. I had left Cassandra in charge to take care of my life while I was away in Cannes at the film festival. When I returned home from the trip, I learned just how wrong I was to leave Cassandra With a Star in charge of my life. As I walked through the door, all I wanted to do was take off my Euro-wear and cuddle with my best friend of three years, my kitty cat Cleo. Cleohold, keeper of my heart, truth of my soul, my bud, my beast. He was Coco, Coco Puff in the morning, standing one foot, three inches on four paws. He was Spooky under the bed. He was Mr. Naughty when he was outside. But in my arms, he was always My Cleo.

This cat had been through the ringer with me. In the last few months alone, my uncle Jack had died; my great friend Ted Demme, whom I had moved in with, had died; two other great friends of mine both died of incurable diseases; and I had just broken up with my boyfriend of eight years (who didnt die). Needless to say, I was in a pretty dark place.

So when I came through the door looking for my baby, my love, my support system and asked Cassandra With a Star, Wheres Cleo? and she hemmed and hawed and guiltily responded, Welllllll... I immediately felt my body begin to change. It was as though hair sprouted from the pores on my face and my fingernails morphed into claws, Wolfman style. A tsunami of rage was building within me, threatening to rip her hippy-dippy body into shreds.

By the time she confessed that she had wrapped Cleo in a blanket and had taken him to the dog groomerreally, a cat to a dog groomer?!steam was coming out of my ears. Who takes a cat to a dog groomer unless they are species challenged or a complete imbecile? To her surprise, Cleo got scared, wriggled out of the blanket, and escaped. Run, Toto, run. Not only had he run away, but hed been missing for more than three days, and for some reason that defied logic, Cassandra hadnt bothered to call me. I pictured my hands, wrapped around her hippy-dippy throat, slowly choking the life out of her and burying the body in Cleos litter box. I found my hands acting on their own accord, but thanks to the little voice in my head, that said, Dont do that! She will sue! I was able to pull back my reaching, stiff, angry fingers away from her patchouli-oiled hippy neck. Scared that eventually the beast within would win, I grumbled, Please leave, Cassandra, my voice resembling Linda Blairs in The Exorcist after the demon had taken over. She stared at me, fear in her eyes.

Please leave now, really! You must go before I kill you! IM NOT KIDDING! GO!! I WILL KILL YOU. GOOOOOOO!

But before she scurried away, the still human part of my being had the good sense to ask her where exactly she had lost my cat. And, thus, I began my search for Cleo.

The Beginning

It was a snowy morning and we were still asleep. For the past few days I had been talking about how it was time to get a cat. My boyfriend at the time and I had a place in Los Angeles in the hills with a nice backyard for a kitty. He said absolutely not. He stated very clearly that he did not like cats, and he certainly didnt want to live with one. Of course, I decided to ignore him completely.