by Ross Voorhees

Created on: May 16, 2009

Spunky was her name. She was a cat. Nothing fancy, just a gray, longish-haired domestic house cat that lived with my fiance. Those who have owned cats will understand why I say, "lived" instead of "owned by", for one does not own a cat. One is simply allowed the pleasure of being regularly in the presence of the cat that graces you by occupying the same dwelling. I, of course, did not truly comprehend this at the time. Spunky, to me, was merely a collateral object that came with the total package. I was merely indifferent about cats in general. That is how it started, anyway.

She was rather unassuming as cats go. She didn't make a lot of noise, seldom meowing, with a quiet purr that was felt under your hand rather than ever being heard. At times she could be skittish, especially during thunderstorms. This was due to the fact that she had spent the first six years of her life in the company of large dogs whose loud barking she never quite got used to. My wife told me that when she went to adopt her, she was under a bed where she spent the majority of her time, according to the people who were giving her away. She also had stubby front paws, having been declawed using an "old style" procedure. In other words, Spunky didn't have a particularly grand life early on.

Perhaps that is why she was content to just be around rather than busily engaged in most of the activities people normally associate with cats, like chattering at birds, attacking the air, tearing around the house like a lunatic, tripping you up under your own feet, demanding to be fed, demanding fresh water, demanding attention, or demanding whatever else suited that particular cat-moment. She did have the napping part down however, though even then she tended to sleep with her feet underneath her, as if she might at any moment have to make a hasty retreat.

About the only time she really behaved cattish was when someone was talking on the phone. She would then bat incessantly at the coiled cord that stretched between the cradle and the handset. She would occasionally catch the cord between her stubby toes. This would invariably lead to a bout of frantic digging in the sofa cushions, her eyes suddenly kitten-like and full of glee. Don't ask me how the two were related. I have no idea, but I did find myself looking forward to these moments simply because they were absurdly hilarious.

That was my first mistake. I can only assume that this interest in her alerted some sort of homing beacon in her head,

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