Beetlejuice: A ginger, a patriot and the best damn cat you could ever pick out of a box in front of K-Mart

It's coming on a year since I last saw my beloved Beetlejuice. A butt licker and bird murderer to some but a damn fine friend to me. If I was in a war and the army allowed me to bring a cat onto the front lines, I'd have brought Beetle Juice. He liked nothing more than to lick my dirty, dirty arms and to be honest, I loved nothing more than the feel of his slightly wet sandpaper textured tongue gliding down my forearm. Kinda like when you go to the primate area of a zoo to see the monkeys and such do really nasty things as their inhibitions have yet to kick in or form and all they do is sit there and lick each other or pick off dander and bugs. Only, I'm not licking my cat. That was purely a one way street. But he seemed to experience a obvious level of euphoria from doing so and a cats life is already predicable and bland so who was I to rob him of such a simple pleasure?

So Beetle disappeared and for awhile I assumed he was out sewing his wild cat oats, figuring he'd come back older,wiser, possibly a father of 10. Nope. He never came back. Fliers were flown and I asked several neighbors if they'd seen him, to no avail. Eventually I came to terms with the obvious and began the process of learning how to live life without the best damn cat since the first cat was born. He was probably highly revered in the cat world. I always suspected he had been a Green Beret as hit fighting skills were unmatched and his ability to kill birds was well known around the neighborhood. I intervened in a few instances where a dumb pigeon was about to go to the big pigeon poop covered roof top in the sky, and I tried to steer Beetle down a path of compassion, not blood thirstiness.

Yes, I realize I could reach into a box in front of K-Mart and pull out 10 bastard kittens, take them all home and wait to see which one takes a liking to licking my sweaty, stink arm. But it's not the same.

I don't know where Beetle went, who he's with, if he joined the circus and is wearing a little Kaiser helmet or found his way into a meal at one of those restaurants on Spring Mountain. But I know I miss him. I know I'm a cat widow if it is possible to exist as one. And I hope where ever he is, he's meeting his butt licking and pigeon killing quotas. Carving his way in the world, blazing a trail for future ginger felines to follow but never match.