An unfinished writing project. I'm not even sure what this was for.
Story is that a year ago, she died and because of it I have been more changed than any other event in my life.
She was a housecat. What else is there to say? My father died six years ago, my grandmother just a few months ago. Their deaths are mere inconvenience compared to what I have lived in the death of a small tabby named Baby Jasper. She was the baby, always. Even though she was nine years older than our youngest cat Wicca, she was still the baby. A tiny thing with huge, green eyes, B.J. never grew to be more than the size of a large kitten. I think at her fattest, she weighed eleven pounds, but usually hovered around eight, until the last year of her life when she dropped slowly to seven, six, and beyond.
As a kitten in the small apartment, she chased a sponge ball down the hallway and retrieved it repeatedly for hours. She was fascinated by quick movement on the television, especially birds, and became hypnotized by waves of heat rising from candles or oil lamps. In her youth, she could spot the tiniest insects six feet above her on the ceiling, and she cried at them. Later in life, she had to lie next a human, no matter who it was. At a party once, she chose a man named Dave, parked her little body along side of his right hip, and didn’t move for two hours. Dave hates animals, too.
When she was spayed, the SPCA used the wrong, non-non-dissolving stitches, and she took to biting at the nylon knots and stray threads. We fashioned for her an Elizabethan cat collar for her out of a large paper plate that announced “Happy Thanksgiving” as she sauntered into the room. The thing never bothered her until she tried to run under the furniture, where she would stop dead in her tracks with a quiet thud.