by Rev. Judith Laxer; artwork by Mark Roland

The contract Wanda and I had was quite magickal in every way. But it wasn’t until I placed her in her grave that the impact of what I would have to do actually hit me: I’d have to dig up my dead cat!

I made a pact with my cat Wanda. When she was about three or four years old, during one of our love-each-other times, Wanda rested her beautiful head in the palm of my left hand. I petted her from the tip of her cold, wet nose to the back of her ruff, over and over, bliss on her face, and probably mine, too. My landscaping friend Michael had recently given me a cat skull he had unearthed. He knew I would appreciate such a thing, and as I ran my hand over Wanda’s head again and again, I mentally asked her, “Can I have your skull when you die?”

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