This letter was written at the request of my wife, Suzanne.  My soul – mate. The love of my life. FreyasFox.

A few days before her birthday I asked Suzanne what present she would like.  She told me she wanted me to write her a story, and to please write it in the form of a letter, written by my cat, Evie Rose.  Everyone knows I have a magical connection with my cat Evie Rose .  She is unlike any pet I have ever owned and I am the only human she loves.  Suzanne asked that I write a letter by Evie Rose, explaining why she loved me so much, and where our magical connection comes from .

This story – Evies Letter – is that explanation – the letter written by Evie Rose

My place. 

By Evie Rose Scatchcat.  


I’ve been meaning to write this for sometime.  Yes, I can communicate just fine when I want to but it seems so pedestrian and conventional.  Some of your grievances have fallen upon my always upturned ears.  Here and only here will they be addressed.  


You have said on more than one occasion that I love the man more than you.  Love.  Now there is an interesting concept and one I haven’t totally wrapped my furry head around.  


Love is a formula to us cats.  You take need – plus respect, add all the things we get in return (good or bad) and minus the iron fact that all of you are just food we can’t ever hope to bring down.  I’m kidding about taking you down.  I just threw that in there to make sure you were paying attention.  


Need is the biggest draw.  If I asked you what drew you to him, you’d come out with a long list of shiny but ultimately useless nuggets.  You’d tell me how he’s strong, handsome, quick witted and a halfway decent artist.  Something like that, you’d just list a long and tedious or perhaps short, blunt list.  At the end of it all, you wouldn’t mention “need”.  First, you don’t really need him or him you.  At some point during your march out of the ice, this may have been entirely true.  Today, it’s a fragile concept that’s frequently in a tug of war between people with this view or that.  


Need to me is almost existence.  I’m not talking about how much I need from you and him, no.  I’m talking about how much you and him in particular need from me.  As you see, I’m a fine huntress, a good fighter and never has there been anything in my way that I could not climb over with ease.  


The man, he’s a skilled warrior, a passable craftsman and quite the go-getter.  He is also in desperate need of my skills.  I’ll explain this but first I’ll let you in on some things you may not know about me and my kind.  


All memories of all cats past are thoughts of all cats present and future.  Some of my ancestral memories are foggy at best while some are as clear as you cursing your way from my litter box yesterday.  


I remember like it was me, or perhaps it was…I remember killing mice in a granary far across the sea in a place called Egypt.  I remember the old soldier, blind from age, who helped guard the grain.  He couldn’t fight off a mild headache but he was respected by his fellows.  They treated him like he commanded the sun and moon.  Seven Nubian spirits followed him around even though he could not see them.  They’d scream curses at him for killing them in battle.  All the cats would circle the old man and protect him from all of their curses, evil wishes and hexes.  

When he finally died one day, a warm spring evening, we watched the Nubians fade away, never having harmed the old one.   Perhaps they too were at peace then, I don’t know or care.  You want those kind of explanations, talk to a priest.  


I remember one of my distant grandparents, they were the inspiration for a skilled artisan in the north of the old lands called Europe.  He modeled them both into a huge statue in a great temple built into the side of a towering mountain.  The statue was a grand centerpiece in the main hall where their stone likenesses pulled the chariot of a goddess called “Freya”.  “Blessed are those upon whom she smiles,” that was the saying.  Surely she smiled upon those beautiful creatures in her employ.  


But onto the matter at hand.  The man is not the shining, keen blade that he used to be.  You probably know that.  He’s more like a dull dinner knife that might be a threat if it fell off the table onto a barefoot, but that’s about the sum of it.  Like me, he’s a house thing now.  He snores loudly, gets a little fatter each year and doesn’t move as fast as he once did.  Come to the house and you can expect to find him there, just like the old butcher’s knife in the back of some kitchen drawer.


At one time, he was a soldier, a good one.  That’s an easy one to figure out.  Those spirits, they were soldiers as well.  They weren’t children not lucky enough to make it to a bomb shelter in time.  These men, the ones who stalk him in that unseen half-world, these men were killers too and sought after for their skills and abilities.  He dropped more than a few in their tracks.  And they sit across from him now, glaring, snarling curses in their foreign tongue and wishing I’d get lost.  


Now, he will never have the chance to be the killer I am.  I think we’ve established that.  Almost daily, I best one of those little snakes lucky enough to be blessed with legs.  Not lucky enough to be faster than me, I might add.  I occasionally bring in one of their nearly lifeless corpses to remind those angry, bodiless men.  Maybe I could kill one of them, I don’t know for sure.  I know I can hurt them but I choose to sparingly.  


Just the other day, the rain was coming down, and for whatever astral reason, the spirits come around more during those times.  Maybe they have better things to do on sunny days.  A whole group of them were right there in the living room, and the man was just staring at the wall.  You see, they can’t touch him but they can get into his head, so to speak and cause untold trouble there.  I had just run in, soaking wet and irritated when I saw they’d slipped past me for once.  


The man got up and walked over to the cupboard.  Strong drink does not make them go away and the man doesn’t seem to get that after nearly ten years.  No, I told myself, we aren’t having another night of him crying to himself nearby in the woods, thinking about what all he didn’t do and blaming himself for the world’s problems.    No one under my care is going to be caught carrying on that way.  What would others think of me if word got back to the humane society?  


Carlos, he’s the only one of the group whose name I know.  Though soaking wet, I straightened myself and quietly walked up behind him.  Out came my claws and I sliced him deep across the ankle.  It went right through his boot and into the bone.  He howled and hit the floor.  What a show!  I stooled over to him and asked, “Want me to do the other one too, Carlos?  Or would you rather take your gang of transparent trash and float off to bother someone else?”  


Curses.  Curses in Spanish sound so heart felt and genuine.  I never get tired of hearing Carlos sputtering them out, especially when he’s in immense pain.  I know my claws work better on the spirits of the dead but I also wonder if things don’t hurt worse too.  It sure seems to.  


Wet as a fish in a fish bed, I hopped up onto the man’s lap.  He didn’t seem to care and went to petting my wet fur.  Carlos struggled to his feet.  He snatched a handgun out of his pants and aimed it at me.  


“Oh scary!” I laughed at him.  “Didn’t pointing pretend guns at people get old to you when you were a boy?  Better aim well, Carlos.  Better aim better than you did the day this man right here blew half your head off.”  


I love seeing people furious.  Maybe I have a problem.  Either way, I don’t want to change.  


Some nights I sleep near the man.  You should thank me for that.  If I don’t, you can be sure that that the old gang of cut throats will show up and wake him up for us.  Then its all sitting there looking at the ceiling for him or twisting around in the bed and waking up everybody.  


It all depends on the spirits’ drive, you see.  Nothing drives them more than revenge.  Sometimes its love too though.  I think when the man dies, if you are still around, he’ll be here nearby.  He wouldn’t want to go into that never ending anything without you.  So he’d wait on you until that spark of life leaves your eyes too.  I know this because I’ve seen it before.  


But unlike the spirits of those whom he beat with bullet or blade, he’d urge me to sit with you purring, the singing the song of my people.  And if you go into the neither-world first, come see me.  I’ll be the same old Evie or else there will be one of my kin nearby.  


This is my way of saying thanks, you see.  You bring food, keep our home smelling so good and always pet me, even when I frankly have better things to do.  If it wasn’t for you and the man, I’d be spending my nights in a loveless cage, wondering when I’d matter to the world.  I’ll be here for the rest of my days, keeping the bad at bay, welcoming in the good and repaying the comfort you’ve given me.