The Writing

21 October, 2013

pooka

He was my first cat. Scrawny little runt, barely weaned, barely survived his first weekend away from mama. 

He turned into this magnificent monster of a black cat, all muscle and bone, fearless and smart and a little bit wicked. Nothing in plastic was safe, counter or table, he'd find it, open it, eat it. Saffron rolls, pumpkin bread, cookies. 

He had a crooked tail, which he carried straight up. 

He liked raw pumpkin. 

He growled at maintenance men and defended his territory and everyone in it. 

He walked on a leash.  

He moved 1200 miles without missing a beat or a meal. 

He had unusually long fangs. 

He didn't complain, unless he was hungry. 

Best cat ever. 



June 1996-October 2013