LAST SUMMER OF MY NINTH LIFE

August, as it came to an end, was beginning to feel like the cruelest month of all. When summer was over, so was I . I, Felis cactus, would be no longer here, vanished, that’s all, folks!

But that’s the existential problem with being a cat, isn’t it? Whoever is in charge (probably some big unneutered Doberman in the sky) only gave us nine lives. Why nine? What would have been wrong with ten, or how about life everlasting for good behavior??

By August 31, summer would be over and my ninth life would be over, as in used up .

But ,I had one last meow. one BIG THING, to do before summer (and I) ended!

I felt cheated. Lets face it, life is grossly unfair where we felines are involved. Why couldn't I have been a turtle, a tortoise, a shark or an elephant. They all had luxuriously long lives. Or how about marine invertebrates who live 15,o00 years? No, that would be too much of a good thing.

But somewhere between these two extremes. Maybe that would be a little more like justice for a cat like me who has t endured so much, life after life. After life.

For starters, most of my nine lives were pretty brief. and traumatic with a capital T. Like life #3 ! that one ended under the BODY of a ten wheeler at the hands of that a drunk Albanian, I how about life #2? What a way to go that was, at the hands of those garbage kids who drowned me in the well on that dairy farm, along with my three kittens, Or , now that I think about it, life #8, maybe that’s the one that took the catnip! Being thrown out an apartment window in the Bronx by a midnight burglar who didn’t like my yowling. I should get

get reparations from the universe just for that one!

In case , you think this is just sour grapes, let me tell you that I am no park avenue pussycat. Not even close. I have never once reclined on satin pillows with a diamond-studded collar around my neck, eating minced field mice while being petted by a fair haired maiden named Buffy. Not even close.

And how about all the insulting and stupid names I have had to put up with life after life. My name was Buster in life #8 before my violent end out of that 5th story window.

Besides Buster, I was expected to come running to the name of Tiger, Whiskers, Purdy, Paws, Pusss, Calypso and once (in a case of mistaken sexual identity) Mimi !

I am as done with the name game as I am almost done with life #9. Call me kitty and let it go at that.

So, what has life #9 been like for this slightly cross eyed (but adorable) six toed grey and white rescue tabby with the frosted tipped ears and the bushy tail? Well, a little more of the same without the near (and real ) death experiences. In life #9, so far, I’ve had my tail twisted into a pretzel by a toddler, one ear half chewed off by a passing raccoon, and oh, yeah, there was that weekend I was locked in a clothes closet for two days when the Jefferson family went on a fishing trip. In a closet with mothballs, no food or water!

Since it’s my last stand,I’d like to go out in more than a blaze of squirrel chasing glory. And I've earned it. After those last (I shudder to recall) 8 and counting lives.

So what one last thing do I want to do before summer ends, before the curtain falls and the catnip runs out along with life #9?

Actually, I want more from the powers that be . From all my cat ancestors through the ages. . I am calling on St Gertrude, the patron saint of cats, the Egy[tian goddess Bastet , the Norse goddess of Love, Freja to grant me my one last wish.

Cats after all, are celebrated shape changers, bringers of luck and prosperity (besides being a witch’s best friend) and now am calling on them for some shape changing. . I want to be tall and powerful. I want to talk, not just to purr and meow. I DON’T WANT TO BE A PET, I WANT TO BE A PETOWNER FOR THE REST OF THE SUMMER!

Something shifted in the summer air, as I stood there in the backyard behind the picket fence and under the apple trees, standing on my back legs and pawing at the sky. I could sense other worlds listening to my plea, I felt in communion with a realm beyond my understanding.

Then all of a sudden, there was my last “owner”, Mr. Edward Finch, widower, father and bookkeeper, tall, a little stern and not a died in the fur catlover, whose pudgy 7 year old daughter Esther was either stepping on my tail, leaving my water bowl empty or ignoring me altogether.

Except now….now I was Mr Finch. And Mr Finch was me. At my feet. Frosted tips, bushy tail and all.

It felt glorious being taller than the blackberry bushes. Too big to be pushed down a well or tossed out a window!

I opened my mouth, expecting a meow to come out, but instead I heard. “ Ah, sweet kitty… What are you doing down there? . Come sit up here on the new family sofa . Go ahead, sink your paws into Esther’s new pashmina. It’s nice and soft. It will be yours now. And what will it be for dinner? Ahi Tuna or grilled Wagyu beef? I’ve set a place for you at the table.Where Esther usually sits. She can have her meal in the kitchen. . Oh, and did you notice, I have started using only the finest pine chips in your litter , scented with that French catnip you like. Feel free to scratch your claws on that old armchair. It’s seen better days.

“Oh, and I’ve put a bench up at the patio window so we can watch the birds. Or you can sit on that side table we used to call off limits. What are limits anyway?

Come on,summer’s almost over! let’s hear that purrr, loud and clear!”