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To my Muse

For some writers, their muse is something in their heads, nebulous, maybe in the misty form of some woman in a toga. Women in togas never really did anything for me, I’m afraid. My muse has always taken the form of a cat. Cats are rather arrogant creatures that manage to hold sway over most of us with their glowing moonlit eyes and soft pads of their feet…just before they claw their way up our legs or piss on the carpet behind the couch. My muse has both tortured and enchanted me, in this manner. Of course, I speak of this metaphorically, but those who know me also know I have pet cat named Muse. She is black. She is a Manx, which means she was born without a tail. And she hops when she runs. A rather unique cat, I’d like to think, who used to sit in my lap while I typed away with one hand, the other stroking her so she purred and drooled on me.

Then I moved to NYC and had to leave her behind, sadly, but at least in the care of my wonderful family, and especially Katie Beth, oldest sister, just below me. From all told, she has been having a wonderful time at home and I’ve gotten to see what a big furball she’s become the few times I’ve managed to make it back.

Now, unfortunately, I’ve received word that Muse is very ill…she’s had a latent virus in her system since birth that has now spread out as full-blown leukemia. This makes me pretty sad to lose her, but I am glad that she’s lived in comfort and love for the past year. It also makes me incredibly thankful for the support of my family, even in little things like taking care of my black cat. You’ve been a good kitty, Muse. All Dogs Go To Heaven was a crappy cartoon movie, I thought, so I’ll try to write the screenplay for the cats version sooner or later in commemoration.

…five minutes later…
And there’s the call…a quick, easy passing…

-raises a toast to the Muse-

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