meow

I miss my cat. (That's him over there.)

Jasper was the cat who renewed my faith in the potential goodness of the feline race. I loved cats once, many years ago, until I became convinced at the age of 14 that my black cat, Cricket, was possessed. He was under my bed, playing with a tiny mouse. I pushed a book at him in an attempt to distract him long enough that I could save the mouse, and he looked right at me and PUSHED IT BACK.

In the years that followed, many experiences proved to me that cats were not nice. I was afraid of them, and just plain didn't like them. There was the cat where I often house-sat, the old-lady one who sat on my lap wanting me to pet her... until she was suddenly and inexplicably so done with the petting that she would jump up and hiss at me with her claws all sticking out and then run off to feel royally victimized and plan her next ambush.

Then there was the declawed Garfield look-alike. Huge and fat and orange and cranky. He lived with some people I babysat for. When the adults of the house were around, he would honey-double around my feet and pretend to be a lump of love, simple and benign. But when they left, OH, look out. He was the Gigantic Clawless Hallway Prowler, Protector of Babies and Empty Rooms. One night I cowered by the baby's doorway after putting him to bed, paralyzed with fear. The cat stood in the Very Narrow Hallway, growling and totally ready to pounce. In a moment of brilliance, I backed up and grabbed a towel from the bathroom, and then dashed past the beast with the towel held up between us. He yowled in anger and tried to leap at me and scratch me with his non-existent claws. He was too fat to leap very high, and I ran past him and down the stairs and planted myself next to the monitor, praying feverishly that the baby wouldn't wake up...

Fast-forward to Jasper. I didn't really mean to get a cat. I meant to get a dog. For my dog. I was feeling badly about the time that she spent alone while I was in classes, so I did in fact get her a dog. But it went sour, as the new dog proved to be extremely neurotic and pushy and extremely good at getting out of the yard and extremely prone to stealing things from neighbors' yards. Like juicy bits of garbage, and inserts from inline skates. She went to live with a nice couple on a hundred-acre cattle farm, where she could run and run and catch varmints and eat them and then run some more.

And then a friend, who happens to be the president of all cat lovers, mentioned that a really special kitty had appeared at her house, and that he needed a home. I went to visit him. He wasn't scary. He came to live with us. And he was so completely wonderful. He loved my dog passionately, and would grab her giant head with both arms and shove his little face into her ears while she looked at me in resignation with big, patient eyes.

When I sold my house last year, I looked for people to take my sweet pets. Jasper had been going on outdoor adventures for a few months, simply because I was tired of fighting with him about it and because he was happier that way. (I know, maybe you think I'm a bit of a blasphemer right now, on two counts.) Well, the worst did happen, and one day Jasper had plumb disappeared. Maybe he knew I was leaving. Maybe not. But I have missed him ever since.

Lately, I've been having to talk myself out of getting another cat on at least a weekly basis. My apartment is so tiny, and I can't afford the extra monthly fee, but OH THE PANGS. I really just want my Jasper back. Next year, I plan to move into a bigger place again, and will get my sweetie pie dog back from my sweetie pie friends who have been taking such good care of her. And we'll find another angel kitty to be our friend... Until then, I'll ride the waves of missing and meouching and practice that good old patience thing.