Scooter died today. He was 13 years old, and spent his first eight years as Elizabeth's pet. Born in Sullivan County and rescued shortly afterward, he was the runt of the litter who managed to march to his own drummer. The day we drove up to the animal rescue, there were a baby deer, many puppies and other kittens contending for adoption. (Well not the fawn, but she was distracting with loveliness.) We had been told there was a kitten there whose name should be trouble. He strayed from the group. He was a biter. He got lost, and tumbled down hills.
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| Scooter with Elizabeth in 1998 |
Still, we took him home where he soon adjusted to life with the loving Elizabeth. She let him sleep in her bed. He was a great companion to all. His favorite position was flat out on your chest when you were in a reclining position. He liked to be scratched behind his ears. Like many other cats of my acquaintance, he did not really approve of reading, and did his best to prevent you from doing it by tearing the newspaper to shreds for instance, or sitting on your book while you had it in your lap and thought you had made it clear it would be better to stop back later after this chapter.
As a hunter, he would bring us shrews and mice he had caught. He had no use for bats, even though they tempted him and made him take ungainly leaps upward which proved only how difficult it was to capture a bat without a butterfly net.
When Elizabeth died, he seemed to look for her and would sometimes howl with grief. Her last note hanging on our door was "Be nice to Scooter! Play with him!" We did our best to follow her advice. His greatest pleasures were lying in bed alongside Richard, and eating fresh chicken Richard had fried. We will miss him most dreadfully.
