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"So, it's finally time,eh, Old Man?"

I ran my fingers lightly down his knobby spine. He pushed closer, urging more contact with me.

"It had to happen," he whispered in his scratchy purr. "I've been here far too long."
When he pulled his frail body onto my lap, I scarce felt his weight.

"It seems only yesterday you were a skittish kitten, frightened of everyone and everything. You've made progress." I smiled at the memories; he seemed to be seeing them, too.

One final time, he took his place across my shoulders, watching me work on the computer. For a while, he was content. I felt him shift as he glided down my arm to rest across the keyboard.

It was time to give him full attention. He demanded it.

"What will I do without you? You're my muse. You give me the will, the words and the wisdom to put the words together."

"No matter, Pet," he said, reaching out paws with claws sheathed. Gathering my hand in them, he honored me by marking me as his own with a deft movement of his mouth against my skin.

"I'll be with you though I have to leave this earth. You'll know I'm still here in spirit. I'll send you a sign. As for your writing, that came from you, dear girl...from your head, but more from the depths of your heart."

Conversation was at an end. He curled into an impossible ball of skin and bones, this friend of 27 years. I sat, refusing to move for any reason, cherishing the moments we had left.

I remembered the stunning medium gray kitten, with white stocking feet, a blaze of white down his face and a brilliant white chest. Though I was taken with him, he would have nothing to do with me.

His love centered on our live-in housekeeper/babysitter and my daughter, whom the sitter adored. Only after Virginia's death seven years later, did he decide I was worthy of his attentions. Without further ado, he adopted me.

We did everything together, traveling great distances or just taking evening strolls down the street. As I cleaned, he jumped up to inspect each sheet put on the beds. I folded clothes and put them in drawers - he removed them.

A finicky eater when young, he got over it when the dogs moved in. Not only did he want his food, but theirs as well. A swat or two with open claws gave him first dibs every time.

He blessed my patio with gifts of rats, moles and even a fresh fish (never did figure how he got that one). I praised his prowess and once he was satisfied I showed appropriate gratitude, I buried the 'gifts' in my flower beds.

He killed a snake which threatened my daughter...a pygmy rattler. Thus, he added protector to his skills. But more than anything, he was my handsome fur stole, who rode across my shoulders as age gradually took away his ability to walk long distances.

"Good-bye, Maggie. Thank you for being my friend. It's time for me to go."

"No, not yet," I begged, determined not to embarrass him by crying. "Just a little longer. Please, just a few moments, maybe another day, but not yet, please don't go." He jumped down from my lap, a shiver wracking his body from the jolt to his old bones.

"It isn't my choice, sweet child. I'm needed up there. He's waiting for me and I know there will be no more pain. Remember, Maggie, my friend, look for the signs that my spirit is always with you. I've loved you as you loved me."

He slipped out the cat door, silent, disappearing into the darkness. Old Man never returned after that night. But, each time I sit down to write, I feel a soft, furry body draped over my shoulders. I know my cat, my muse, is here urging me to write. He purrs and I begin...

Learn more about this author, Michelle N. Broughton.
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