I'm sad today.
I just got a call from Jay Edgar back home.
Whiskerbelle died.
Whiskey was my cat growing up. Since I was about seven.
Whiskey didn't much like people, and I'm pretty sure she hated me. But I loved her to pieces.
Story of my life.
We had her twenty years, but it's hard to say how old she really was. She was already a full grown cat when my dad found her.
He'd been called out for a tow and he found Whiskey curled up under the hood of the stranded car.
The car's owner swore she didn't know how Whiskey got there, but Dad wasn't sure he believed her.
Anyway, he brought her home. I tried to play with her. She bit me.
She bit me pretty much every time I tried to play with her. But that didn't stop me.
I was always braiding her fur, and tying little bows in it.
I never could get them out.
We had to shave her bald at least ten times, and the last time she stayed that way.
She was missing at least one toe on each foot. I never could get a proper count because she wouldn't stop squirming.
She was blind in one eye. The blind eye was glazed over and gray, and her "good" eye was this hideous blood red. She didn't have any eyelids either, so even when she was sleeping it looked like she was staring at you and quietly wanting to kill you.
She had asthma real bad. And would make this horrific whiffling, wheezing, metallic sound that would echo through the house at night. Sometimes I imagined it was Death himself trying to whisper my name through a mouthful of broken glass.
Apparently my whole family had the exact same thought. And they each heard their own names being spoken. Funny, huh?
For all that, she was my kitty. And I loved her.
In the end, she didn't go quietly.
She used to like to hide in the branches of the tree on the front lawn, jump down on the mailman's head and claw the crap out of his face.
I don't know why he never saw it coming.
Anyway, he never reported it. He was a longtime pet lover and animal rights activist, and he didn't want the authorities to step in and have Whiskey put down.
I guess it happened one time too many though, because he finally snapped.
Like a million other times before, Whiskey leapt out of the branches, claws extended, the fires of hate burning hot in her bloody good eye.
But this time the mailman spun around, drew a handgun and shot her mid-air.
Jay Edgar saw the whole thing, and said it played out like a slow-motion alley fight in a Hong Kong gangster movie. He's weird.
Afterwards, the mailman collapsed to his knees on the front walk and cried his eyes out for a good forty-five minutes.
I don't have any anger toward him. He's a good guy.
But I do miss Whiskey
I tried to tell Suki about it, but she couldn't relate. The only pet she had growing up was a skink.
I'm not even sure what that is.
Oh, but get this.
Jay Edgar found out about the pantyhose site.
But he's cool with it, and he's promised not to say a thing to Mom and Dad. He loves me.
And anyway, I've got so much dirt on him he wouldn't dare...
Whiskerbelle, R.I.P.
Love you! See you all soon!
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