Boot Scoot Boogie

Scooter was such a good boy.

He rescued us from our grief when we lost Skittle back in October of 2010. We’d never wanted a cat. I’d never had one, and neither had Paul–we both had dogs growing up–and his mom continued to have dogs. My dog was my only pet, and my parents never had another. (They grew up on farms, and felt no sentiment whatsoever for animals. Mom would always roll her eyes when I mentioned Scooter because she could not wrap her mind around someone voluntarily allowing a cat in the house, let alone loving one.) We got Skittle originally because we had a mouse in the carriage house–and everyone’s response, from our landlady to neighbors and friends, was simply, “You need a cat.” It was the day after Christmas in 2002 when we went to the SPCA in the Bywater and brought six-month old Skittle home. When we lost him (cancer), we were both bereft. Paul took to bed for over twenty-four hours while I walked around the Lost Apartment in a sad daze, wondering how such a small thing could take up so much space in the house and in my heart that both seemed empty and cavernous without him in them anymore. Thursday afternoon after we lost him I went and picked up his ashes from the Cat Practice, and while I was waiting, there was an adoptable cat in of the two cages behind the front desk. The sign said he was two years old and named Texas. He stuck his paw through the bars to me, and I wanted to take him home right then as I scratched between his ears and he purred. I would have, were I not worried about how Paul would feel about a new cat; figuring I could broach the subject at an appropriate time. That very night Paul fell asleep on the couch, and dreamed he saw a mouse sitting on the recycling can just inside the kitchen door (to this day he swears it wasn’t a dream; I was awake and saw nothing, for the record, but I don’t argue the point with him because the end result, regardless, was he decided we needed a new cat and I wasn’t going to say no), and as he said “we need a cat” I said, “There’s a really sweet one at the Cat Practice named Texas. Why don’t you stop by there on your way to work tomorrow and see him? If you like him, we can make arrangements to adopt him and I can pick him up on my way home from work.”

Well, that just wouldn’t do once Paul met him. He called me and told me that he’d signed the papers, and I could pick him up at his office at four so we could get him, and that’s what we did. Scooter came home with us that night for a week trial. It took an hour for us to decide we couldn’t bear to part with him. I do remember thinking, as he purred and head-butted me and made biscuits in my lap, but his fur is so wiry! Skittle was so soft!

By Sunday, Scooter’s hair was also soft and silky because he knew he was at home and no more cages for him.

He was, without question, the sweetest cat in the world. All Scooter ever wanted was to cuddle. And was very insistent on his rights to my lap whenever he wanted it. He would come and howl at me while I sat at my desk working, and if I ignored him, he’d eventually come over and start tapping me with one of his paws, that look on his face, and I’d give in, every single time. He would sleep in my lap in my easy chair until Paul stretched out on the couch–at which point he would completely desert me without a second glance and would head over there, where he’d stay for the rest of the night unless Paul got up. We always used Scooter as an excuse for service–I’d ask Paul to get me something from the kitchen so I wouldn’t disturb Scooter; he would do the same. Scooter would sleep with me when I went to bed, and then, once Paul got into bed, climbed over him and went to sleep on his other side. He loved people, being just a tiny bit shy around someone new for about thirty seconds before realizing oh this person might pet me or let me sit in their lap and he’d start trying to charm the person. We spoiled him mercilessly, but he never really cared much about toys or catnip. He just wanted a lap.

He also always seemed to instinctively know, somehow, when something was wrong with me or I was upset. Whenever I’d get a text from my father or sister updating me about Mom, within minutes he’d appear out of nowhere and climb up into my lap and purr and head butt me and let me know he was there for me. He could do this for Paul, too; so much so that I wondered if cats were empaths (and yes, I want to write a book about cats; a sort of magical realism thing called Daughters of Bast). He also usually would come running down the stairs when I got home; he’d hear the key in the lock and come running. He would always stop on about the third step and howl at me, like he was saying there you are at last! Where have you been? I’ve been alone for a couple of hours! Such bad daddies I have!

Of course, he may not have known. He just wanted a lap to sleep in and cuddle, and so whenever I was upset or something bad was going on in my life or I just was overwhelmed, that regular, consistent demand for a lap was comforting, and I only really paid attention when I was upset, because it always made me feel somewhat better. I could take comfort in my cat’s adoration of me.

I will also be forever grateful to the art department at Crooked Lane for wanting to put Scooter on the cover of a A Streetcar Named Murder; I also gave Scotty and the boys a ginger cat named Scooter. Scooter will live on in the pages of my books forever; so I guess I also managed to grant him immortality of sorts…even though most readers won’t know that Scooter was our ginger baby.

We named him Scooter because it sounded like Skittle, without being the exact same. We did worry, like the overdramatic queens we are, if getting a new cat was betraying the love of our lost one. Silly and ridiculous on its face, of course, but grief doesn’t always make sense to those left behind; we think and do erratic things when we’re struggling with loss. I do think, at least for me, part of the pain and the grief I feel is because Scooter counted on us to take care of him, and losing him means we failed him in some way. I know it’s not rational to think that way, but I can’t help it and no matter how much I remember how badly we spoiled him and how he basically was the Boss around here, it doesn’t make that guilty feeling go away.

Paul and I both also have a habit of nicknaming people and animals we care about; so Scooter became Scoot, Scoot the Boot, Boot, Bootercat, das Boot, and so on.

The house feels so empty.

I’m going to stay off-line for the most part this weekend; Paul and I have both decided that we’re not going to answer emails or deal with anything this weekend other than spoiling ourselves. Next week we’ll start looking for our next cat–probably Skipper–and maybe by next weekend the cat-sized hole in our lives will be filled. The only blessing in Scooter’s loss is we’ll now be able to rescue another cat who needs a forever home, and spoil him mercilessly.

Losing them rips your heart out, but I also can’t imagine not having, and loving, one.