Remembering Spotty Belly
Spotty Belly was born in Mercersburg, PA to Cheerios, a cat belonging to our church's pastor. When I came to look at her kittens, I was immediately drawn to the little silver tabby, but didn't say anything because I didn't want to make a hasty decision. However, as I went to leave he started squeaking, flopped off the porch and ran as fast as he could towards me. I gently put him back but he ran toward me again. It was then I knew we were meant for each other. Because he was only three weeks old, I had to wait a little while longer to take him home. But once he arrived, we were inseparable.
Though I considered several fancier names for him including Fleance, Erique, Claude, and Herbert, it was simply Spotty Belly that stuck. Spotty Bear, Honey Bun, Spots-on-the-Belly, Mr. Spots, the Belly, and Mr. Ree (from the sound of his squeaky meow) were some of his nicknames. As a kitten, he could fit in my Samantha doll's nightgown and would fall asleep with it on while laying in my lap. There was a tiny basket he'd curl up in and I'd use yarn to lift it with him in it. He liked chewing stuffed toys and could rip them open. I could pick a toy up and he wouldn't let go of it. His teeth were so strong that they supported his full weight. He was an excellent hunter, catching mice on more than one occasion. His eyes were two different colors, with his left one being green and his right being gold.
He would sleep with me every night, go on car trips, and we'd sit on the porch together. If he couldn't find me, he'd wander the house crying until he did. I could not have asked for a more loving, noble, and loyal companion. We were devoted to one another. Spotty was my baby boy, and I will always love him so very much.
To One in Paradise by Edgar Allan Poe
Thou wast that all to me, love,
For which my soul did pine—
A green isle in the sea, love,
A fountain and a shrine,
All wreathed with fairy fruits and flowers,
And all the flowers were mine.
Ah, dream too bright to last!
Ah, starry Hope! that didst arise
But to be overcast!
A voice from out the Future cries,
“On! on!”—but o’er the Past
(Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies
Mute, motionless, aghast!
For, alas! alas! with me
The light of Life is o’er!
No more—no more—no more—
(Such language holds the solemn sea
To the sands upon the shore)
Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree,
Or the stricken eagle soar!
And all my days are trances,
And all my nightly dreams
Are where thy grey eye glances,
And where thy footstep gleams—
In what ethereal dances,
By what eternal streams.