Me Ow!

Are you kidding me? What now? Here she comes. Whatever Freya has planned, count me out. You wouldn’t believe some of the things… never mind.

Excuse me. I must scoot. She wants me? She has to find me.

Sorry about that. She’ll never find me here. Astounding how clueless she can be.

Freya always has a project. More like a distraction. I assure you, I’m busy. She might think I’m napping, but meditation is a crucial part of a cat’s routine. Add the time spent eluding her. And, of course, whatever she’s cooked up for me once I’m found…

There’s no end to her ‘little projects,’ as she calls them. Only they become my little projects because I’m her main prop… I mean, her star, in the drama that accompanies whatever she conjures up.

Yes, I’m nocturnal. And I’m silent… ‘on little cat feet,’ as the saying goes. But I like my time, at least some time, to myself. Who is this witch, if you can call her that (she does), always telling me what to do, and when? Says I’m her ‘familiar.’ Whatever that is.

A ‘self-taught’ student of witchery, she still resorts to dusty books for direction. If only she could read. She’s always mispronouncing her incantations. The results wreak havoc in both our lives. Straightens my tail and makes my hair stand on end. And you would think her accurate measuring of the ingredients would be important. I’m convinced mixing them correctly, might add to their effectiveness. But no!

And that’s where I come in. I’m sent to deliver them to mysterious clients. Let me get this straight, is it potion? Portion? Or poison? I fear it’s only a matter of time before I’m hauled before some pit bull of a judge for my unwitting part in one of her spells gone haywire.

And always on my time. A cat has needs, you know. I like to snooze. To be honest, all time is my time. I never get bored. Except with her projects.

Sometimes humans can be too familiar. You get my drift? I may be her pet. But I’m a cat, not a doll, a dog or some other plaything, always at hand, begging, and ever at her beckoning call.

While she’s at it, she needs a new couch. I shredded the current one.

If I could talk, I’d tell her. But would she listen? Not a chance. But she talks to spirits all the time. How can I message her…?

She’s a wannabe, if you ask me. I know you didn’t. But that’s okay. I know things. I’ve been told that trick or treaters once turned her into a toad… I am curious how that spell got broken… and who cast it.

Don’t get me wrong. I wouldn’t wish toadishness on anyone. Not even Freya. Disgusting little creatures. Tasteless. But you know… maybe Freya’s chasing the wrong line of work. Not everyone can be a witch.

She says I owe her. She rescued me. She raised me. Named me. Feeds me. Says I’m her familiar. She calls me ‘Sinbad.’ And also, ‘Pooka.’ I’ll never understand her whys and wherefores.

And, despite the pedestal she’s put me on, she works my tail off. It’s not enough that the house is vermin free. She expects help with her magic tricks and spells. BTW, she doesn’t call them tricks.

I prefer lounging in my tower and watching squirrels perform their Cirque du Soleil routine in the shady back yard. Okay, I’m lazy. I’m a cat. Is that redundant? Or a surprise?

Freya says I turned her life around. According to her, I bestowed her magical powers. I say that never happened. Never saw any magic from her.

If she wants magic, she should watch me leap onto her dresser without knocking her candles over.

Freya calls me her partner. I’ll admit I’m well fed… maybe too well. I don’t know what she feeds me, but it’s delicious. Each morning, I rouse myself from the fleece lined pot she keeps by the stove. She sets my plate before me on the floor, and sings me a little song.

“My whole life I’ve heard a black cat

Will charm the lives of families.

It’ll keep them happy and fat,

And protects them each from disease.”

Anyway, it’s a pretty melody. I didn’t say it was Shakespeare.

Meanwhile, she works me like a dog. Each night I must attend her rituals. She kneels and fills my ears with chants and my lungs with smelly incense. Then she hangs a little pouch around my neck and sends me out to deliver a potion to one client or another.

She tells me, “This is a potion for treating gout.” Or shingles. Or some other ailment. “It will go to the one most in need. Your task is only to bring it to them.” Sometimes it’s a love charm, relief for a bereaved loss, or protection from evil.

Different every night. I never understood the half of it and never know how they’d find me, or me them. But, sooner or later, after wandering about, I’d always encounter a stranger. Sometimes I’d see them first and walk right up to them. I’d just know. Some shy away. But the right one always crouched before me, spoke softly and took the contents of my pouch. Each time, they made a payment, and sent me on my way. I’ve never returned home without a pouch bulging with cash for Freya.

I’ll never understand why some people act afraid of me. Big deal. I’m a cat. So what? Who are they, that the presence of a cat should be so unsettling? I’m just walking around. I’m not in league with the devil…

So, let me tell you what happened…

One night, making my rounds, I crossed the street. I passed between two men walking toward each other on the sidewalk.

One called out, “I’m blessed with good luck! That black cat was walking left to right.”

The other stopped and put his hands to his face. “No! It walked right to left. I must get home to safety before something terrible befalls me.”

Incredulous at their projections of fear and favor, I stopped. This was over my random passage before them.? Imagine if I actually held such power. They went back and forth until I wearied of their blathering. Returning the way I came, again I passed between them.

They stopped talking and pointed at each other. Now their fortunes had reversed. You should have heard them. Ever see a cat laugh? You should have been there.

I strolled toward them, curious if either was the intended recipient of the potion I carried. Seeing me approach, they each squawked and ran in opposite directions.

I went about my business. A while later a man came up to me, patted my head and exchanged the potion for some cash. Mission accomplished, I headed home.

En route, I crossed paths with a frail kitten who cried, desperate with hunger. Little and white, it had the longest, cartoonish whiskers. I couldn’t believe how small it was. In no hurry, I let it follow me back to Freya’s house.

Her reaction to this street waif amazed me. Freya sighed, picked it up and comforted it. She fed us both and welcomed it into her home. I thought she’d fear being out numbered.

Over the next several weeks, another half-dozen lost kittens and cats followed me home. Not to quibble over semantics, I may have led them.

Like a den mother, Freya welcomed each of them into the fold. They made the moteliest crew of felines you could imagine. Spotted, striped and even a calico, I wondered that such variety could all be called cats.

As usual, Freya gave me credit for this added turn of luck. Now she had a big family of us to care for. She wasted no time putting the most enterprising of us to work delivering her potions. They needed little training. Cats are naturals at wandering aimlessly.

To my good fortune, this relieved me of many responsibilities and affords me more time to myself. Bring it on, squirrels…

Oh, and I’ve recently gotten friendly with Belle, one of the stray cats. Soon, I’ll be more of a cat daddy and much less of a mule.