Spitter

Sir Socks and Spitter as drawn by Ali Noel Vyain

My brother Spitter was a great companion. We didn’t always get along, but can you show me a pair of brothers who always get along well? No, of course not. He was great to hang out with. We used to lie around and watch the humans who came in and out of the house. We could cuddle up to one another. We could complain to each other about whatever was wrong with our lives. We could also complain about our mother and why she had abandoned us. We could even meditate together.

I wasn’t lonely with my brother around. Never mind how whiny we were at times. We loved each other. We wrestled together. We had our little disagreements, but we always made up afterwards. I still miss him sometimes. My girl understands this. She once told me if Spitter was still alive that she would have taken him in too. For once a non-cat understood how upset I was about his disappearance. Or rather his death.

I don’t know why he died. But he was much too young. Rumor has it he was poisoned. It has never been confirmed with actual proof. But he was my brother and my best friend. I could never replace him. I am still tempted to hunt down the responsible party for my brother’s disappearance. But I would have no idea where to even look. It’s been much too long now. The evidence has been destroyed. That’s all I can be sure of now.

I have meditated on Spitter’s disappearance/death. I have come to the conclusion that when we cats die, we tend to disappear from the people we have known. I didn’t find him after he was gone. I know the blind guy would have at least found his body. That’s all we can leave behind when we leave. It is a leaving as far as I’m able to understand.

I’m not sure our essence of who we are really disappears. I think that’s the part that lives on and we travel to somewhere else. It seems that death is the release of our essence from our physical body. Physical bodies do wear out as I can tell you. Mine has worn out. That’s part of the reason I’m writing my memoirs now. It’s easier without all the restrictions I once had.

My girl and I never talked about death per se. She did tend to meditate at times. So, I couldn’t tell you what she thinks of death. But I can tell you she is somewhat sensitive to those who no longer have physical bodies. She can sense them, but that’s about it. She doesn’t try to talk to them. I know now that she’s had to deal with death at an early age. Dead bodies creep her out. Sometimes she dreams of the dead she once knew when they had physical bodies.

She doesn’t tend to talk too much about those dreams. Well, I think she does talk about the ones she has about her son. Those are pleasant for her. They are aware of their physical separation, yet he can contact her every so often via a dream to let her know she’s not really alone. Her aloneness is just a physical illusion. That’s something we all need to remember.

*Sigh.* There was no one else in my life quite like Spitter. We had so much in common that I wonder how I ever ended up with such a silly girl. I wasn’t silly with her. She likes to play too much. She has encouraged me to play. But she never gave me a hard time for not playing with toys. She just accepted me as I truly am. For the curmudgeon that I am.

Spitter understood about being a curmudgeon. He was just as whiny as I was about lots of things. He used to get lonely as I did. He was the one who had asked my girl to pet him. I wasn’t that brave to ask someone I didn’t know. I didn’t ask her until after we had lived together. I didn’t always have to ask her. She likes to pet me.

She at least understood why I missed my brother as much as I did. She assured me that if he had lived, that he would have been with us. That was enough for me. I couldn’t ask for more in a caretaker and caregiver. Even one who is a whirlwind…

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