SPAZ

This is my cat Spaz. If the eyes are windows to the soul then I'm in trouble. She's resting peacefully now, wrapped around her favorite plant, the one with the baby's breath. An hour ago she had a cat fit. Tomorrow I'll have to re-hang the drapes, comb cat fur off the cactus, and sift garlic bulbs from her litter box. Spaz buries garlic in her Fresh Step. I think She's trying to tell me something.

Spaz is an incorrigible thief. A year or so after she moved in I noticed things were disappearing. Small things. Mundane items you don't notice at first, like cellophane from cigarette packs, soda caps, used napkins. Then one day I couldn't find the salt shaker. I was worried. I have a brain tumor and I thought I might be suffering from blackouts. Then I couldn't find a pack of Trojans. I was terrified. Not because of the tumor. I had a friend coming over. A special friend. But I digress.

Spaz followed me as I tore through the house. I searched under couch cushions. I rifled dresser drawers. I checked the freezer and found three cans of Lima beans and a bar of Ivory soap. Brain tumor. When I looked under the bed I discovered two paper towels draped over a small hillock. I pulled back the towels and found cellophane, match books, dryer lint, ink pens, soda caps, a salt shaker, and a tattered pack of Trojans.

When I looked up, Spaz was gone.