It started as I was some other woman who was married with a baby. She was actually schizophrenic or something, as she was hearing voices that were telling her that her family was dead. So she started running out of the bedroom she was in, down the hallway, into the dining room, to the bathroom that was next to the back sliding door. As she was running I could hear a loud, echoing clock ticking at a slowed pace. She/me expected to find the husband and baby in the dining room in front of the bathroom door next to the buffet. But they were not there, only a closed bathroom door.
This is Monkey. She is my mother’s cat. When I was in high school, my mom brought home this tiny, squishy muffin that would sit in the palm of your hand. She was abandoned, and was living under an abandoned refrigerator. I fell in love, and my mother had to keep her. I was the reason my mom kept her, although Monkey was my mom’s cat. In fact, her name isn’t even Monkey, it’s Sadie. But one day when she was a kitten she was jumping around on her hind legs and she looked exactly like a monkey. The nickname stuck.
This black fuzz-ball lived in my bedroom when she wasn’t outside. She would hang out with me, sleep with me, even kicked my cat (her older sister) out of my room to be with me. If I meditated she would sit in my lap, if I was working a ritual or spell she would sit and gaze at the altar. If any animal was my familiar, it was her. If she wasn’t in my room, she was begging to go outside. However, my mom was adamant about the animals staying in at night.