A Cat and his Writer

He came into my life just when I needed a friend.

I didn’t know that at the time, of course. At the time I thought that I was performing a rescue; I had no idea I was the one being rescued.

My friend Julie and I had gone to the animal shelter so I could adopt a cat. “Look at this one,” she said, pulling me toward a cage I hadn’t considered. An adult orange marmalade cat stared back at me, impassive.

Julie tried again. “Look,” she said. “He’s sitting in his litter. That means he’s given up. He’s going to just let himself die.”

I scowled, but her point was well taken, and so I filled out the papers, named him Spike on a whim, and took him home. He promptly disappeared into the cellar.

I didn’t see him again for two weeks.

I sat in the middle of the room, and I talked to Spike for hours. Once in a while there was a flash of movement, of color; the litter was used and the food and water I left consumed; but it wasn’t until I put up my Christmas tree that curiosity won out and he finally emerged; and, once out, decided to stay out.

So Spike and I started to get to know each other. Slowly, tentatively, for he was not one to commit immediately. He discovered that I didn’t appreciate vocalizations first thing in the morning; I figured out where — and when — he…