monique

Spice

Poor little Spice is looking raggedy lately. She's ten
years old but she doesn't know it. Well, it's probably our
fault. We still call her a kitten. She doesn't want to be
an inside cat during the summer. She wants to sleep under
the apple tree in the backyard, waking only to catch an
occasional garter snake although I don't know why and I
suspect she doesn't either. She'll come in the house
sometimes to eat a little cat food and for water but wants
to go right back out again. Sometimes I'll pick her up and
she'll purr and purr and I'll brush her to clean her up a
bit even though I know she'll look raggedy by the next day.

When the days start to cool down and the rains start, she'll
become an inside cat, content to sleep all day near the
fireplace or on a quilt but now she wants to be outside, in
the sun, watching with only one eye open, birds and
butterlifes flit by, dozing in the grass and dreaming
whatever it is that cats dream of.