Squeak. Squeakers. Squeaky Butt. Squeak Monster. Monkey Butt. Those are just a few of her names. My personal favorite is Squeaking Bottom: She Who Squeaks From Both Ends (her Indian name.)
Squeak was a tiny kitty with luxurious black fur. True fur. Did you know some cats have fur while others have hair? I was unaware of this phenomenon until Squeakers grew up and blossomed into something plush and cuddly and oh so loving and sweet.
I brought Squeak home on the eve of Christmas Eve in 1991. That wasn't the plan. The plan was to scout out the SPCA on my lunch hour, choose a kitty, then come back the next day at noon when I got off work for the long Christmas weekend. That way, I would have three and a half uninterrupted days to spend with her, getting to know her, catering to her needs, keeping my other kitty, Spook, from tormenting her, things like that.
That was the plan. Out the window it went when they told me all unadopted kitties would be euthanized at 7:00am the next morning. Can't I reserve her, I asked? Pay today so she is off the kill list but pick her up tomorrow noon? No. Apparently they don't do layaway at the SPCA. "But I'm not prepared," I wailed. "I didn't bring a kitty carrier. I have no special kitten food at home. I have to be back at work in twenty minutes!" Too bad, so sad. Take her now or she's dead.
Bastards!
So that is how I ended up with an incredibly small kitten under my drivers seat as I raced home accompanied by teeny, tiny, squeaking meows and the fear that she would lodge herself behind the gas or brake pedal and I would be forced to squash her tiny little body to avoid a traffic accident.
Day One: Let the worrying begin.
Squeak was mischievous. Once she got up on the roof of my Fremont condo and made me climb my sorry ass up there and chase her around for ten minutes before she finally decided to stop and let me rescue her. Little shit.
Squeak was also bitchy. She was, after all, a girl. When we moved into a house with several other cats, she hissed and spat at anyone that got too near. Never mind that she had no front claws to back up her posturing. She let them know she was important, dammit, and due her fair share of respect. The boys bowed to her authority. The girls ignored her. All was right with the world.
What I miss most about Squeak is our bedtime ritual. I get into bed and prop myself up with my knees bent to support whatever book or crossword puzzle I'm into. Squeak jumps onto the bed, goes under the covers, and curls up in the tented space beneath my knees and purrs. After a few minutes, she comes out for a bit of petting and then settles down next to my pillow for the serious sleeping.
My second most cherished Squeak-ism is the morning wake-up ritual. I'm half-conscious, just coming out of full sleep, when I get the strange sensation I am being watched. I open my eyes to a tiny black face staring intently down at me from three inches away. The purring begins when I open my eyes. Time for breakfast. How does she do that? How does she know the exact moment I wake up? Is it the change in my breathing as I come up from the depths of sleep? What?
I have no words to express the incredible joy Squeak brought into my life. I will miss her until the day I die. And then, if I'm really lucky, I will see her again. Do they let people into Kitty Heaven?
