|Spooky helping me write|
She was 17 years old and had a failing liver. I was hoping she'd make it through the holiday season, but she didn't.
I got her from a shelter when I was living in Phoenix. She was a wee thing, an elegant tuxedo cat with a dribble of milk down her chin. She jumped on all fours, clinging to the gate that separated us, and meowed. I knew she was trouble, and I knew she was mine.
I named her Spooky because I was a huge fan of The X-Files and because she spooked easily. Loud noises, strangers, pretty much anything had her skittering to a hidey-hole.
She loved to burrow under blankets and I'd create "caves" for her. She loved high places, even though she didn't know how she'd get down. She loved to cuddle in the crook of my arm. She'd lick my nose to let me know she was happy.
I've had other cats, but Spooky was the one I was most bonded to. She'd perch on my printer, watching me as I wrote. If she thought I'd written enough, she'd sit on my keyboard until I picked her up and cuddled her.
Writing at my desk isn't the same anymore.