Pussy cat, pussy cat where have you been?

For sixteen years I had my writer’s cat. She was named Sherazad, a teller of stories. She saw me through men, crisis, seven different homes, and triumph. Today she is gone. I took her catnip from the garden, and held her and told her thank you for all those years. And she purred and licked my nose as she always did. Then within a moment, her eyes focused on somewhere else and she slipped through the Veil and was gone.

No more loud meowing for her food, no more dead animals bought inside, no more fussy eating.

But also no more snuggling on my lap, purring. No more tussels with tinsel at Christmas time. No more hiding in the cupboards I left open. No more snuggles on the bedcovers when the rest of the world seemed cold. 

She fought off the attack of one car, and lived a good seven more years. But she didn’t survive a second mauling. This way, though it hurts was better than a slow decline. I got to hold her in my arms, and she was happy. Because her idea of contentment was not about place- it was about me. Anywhere I was, she wanted to be. We could have been anywhere, and as long as I was there, she was content.

If you read Digital Magic Shaz is in there; the writer’s cat who has to see the dawn. So she has her moment with the Fey.

It was a little life, but it was a happy one. Goodbye dear heart. You were a character that made my life brighter and I will miss you terribly. Maybe we will find each other on the other side of the Veil.