The Cat With The Butterscotch Nose

            The following is a fiction piece – today’s early morning writing practice.

The cat with the butterscotch nose chose me, and I chose him. It happened on a Wednesday. I was awake early, before dawn. Sleep had evaded me as it often did, so I sat, a cup of hot coffee in hand, staring at a sky that began to lighten as the minutes ticked by. The hands on the old, kitchen clock seemed to strain with each movement, its effort conjuring the notion that the ancient timepiece had created a life of its own. Ah. How many times had those pointy fingers traveled around and around marking time? How many times had I glanced at its face searching the hour as I had just now? What will this day bring?

Not one thought had settled in my restless mind that morning and to some degree that was soothing. The past had rendered more than a few nightmares and the future lay before me like a winding road going God only knew where. For an hour I sipped my coffee until the drink grew tepid and lost its flavor. At the moment I stood to refresh it, I heard a tiny noise and a miniature scuffle on the porch outside. A raccoon, I bet.

I stepped to the screen door, broom in hand to shoo the animal away but stopped instantly. At the very second the golden globe of the sun edged to the horizon, I looked down at the sweetest face I had ever seen. It was a ring-tailed kitten, its fur puffed out, seemingly standing on end. It’s been cold, or afraid.

“Hello there,” I said, reaching out.

The tiny cat backed away, circled, and then returned, meowing a message as it did. “Take me in,” I imagined it saying.

A bowl of warm milk and a bit of tuna bonded us that morning. He stayed that day and every day after. I named him Butterscotch because his nose was the exact amber color. In almost no time Butterscotch grew fat and feisty. His mane of black and chocolate fur thickened and glistened in the sun. He loved to sit on the porch railing, dozing or scanning the yard for critters to catch. Carcasses of mice or lizards, delivered to the door, became daily gifts for me until one day he had had enough. He had grown old and simply watched then with sleepy eyes and his long tail swishing at a truth. His hunting days were over. It was a fact, but he had, thank goodness, years to go.

We spent time then together, Butterscotch and I -- curled together in a hammock or he in my lap as I rocked him like a baby. He would reach for me with soft paws, claws retracted, and tenderly pat my cheek. I would touch his nose, that beautiful butterscotch nose, and gaze at him affectionately. I rubbed his tummy then and he would stare back at me until his eyes closed and his claws kneaded the air. Butterscotch – a most contented cat that had appeared like a miracle one day to fill my life with love.