A few years back my daughter, Jessica, wanted a cat. So we went to the humane society and picked out a male ginger tabby, about 8 months old. Jessica, being a huge Star Trek fan, promptly named the striped cat Spot, after Data the Android's cat who looked the same. Spot hated Jessica. Spot hated everybody but me. He would lie on the floor in the middle of the doorway and refuse to move so you had to step over him, where he would promptly attack your ankle! Unprovoked he would run up and take a swipe at you, and run away. But for me, he would stand on his hind legs, front paws reaching up and beg to be picked up. When I did, he would put a paw on either side of my neck, nuzzle his face against my cheek, and gently squeeze with his paws, giving me a hug. I swear I knew that cat in a previous life for he would look into my eyes as if searching for recognition.
When Spot was about 7 years old, he developed feline diabetes. Try as we might, we couldn't get his blood sugar regulated and finally had to put him down. I couldn't bear to part with him even in death, and so had him cremated individually and his ashes returned to me. I kept them in an urn for over a decade, but this weekend I finally spread his ashes in the hosta garden, his favorite place to hide and rest. It just didn't feel right to move him from the home he had so diligently protected from neighboring cats and dogs.
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