A few words in memory of Spooky, a sweet companion of mine…

First of all, yes, I know the name doesn’t fit. I mean, look at him. Shouldn’t “Spooky” be a more fitting name for a black cat? You know, a witch’s familiar, that sort of thing? Short answer: yes. But he had that name when I got him in 2000 at age 5, so we were stuck.

The thing I remember most about my Spooky is this: he would hide under the bed whenever the cleaning lady came. He would hide under the bed whenever anybody came… except maybe a female person… whom he already knew. Spooky was a real fraidy-cat, play on words intended – which makes his name all the more ironic.

Two scenes I picture whenever I think of him. One consists of me, seated in my recliner (okay, I admit I’m kind of welded to it when I’m home and not at my computer), with Spooky wedged beside me, as I watched the weeks of uncertainty and drama during the interminable Florida Recount. (If you don’t know what that was, you’re too young to be reading this post. 😉 )

The second was when I had to ‘let him go’ as he was wasting away from an undiagnosed illness – probably cancer. The term ‘let him go’ is of course a misnomer, because it involves a deliberate act whereby you take your beloved pet to the vet to be, yes, killed. But since that’s too harsh for us to contemplate, too awful a deed to think we are capable of committing, too horrible to ever actually even consider, we say ‘let him go’ so we can live with ourselves. Sigh. On the other hand, when we do this, we’re putting them out of their misery, so… I guess it evens out.

I still think of Spooky; he was such a sweetie. After him, I was sure I was through with cats.

Hah! Then Princess Annie fell in my lap… and has hardly left my lap since.

Ah, but we’ll leave Annie’s antics for another time. This post belongs to Spooky!