Early Beltane morning, when they were very thin, Miss Thing, my good grey cat, slipped between the veils. Just before she went, she climbed onto my bed, shoved me over, stretched one front leg out in her typical elegant pose, and we had a lovely snuggle. I pet her, she purred, life was good. Her purr was always amazing; I never once ceased to be amazed by the active grace of so much pleasure.
She was a very private cat, not too fond of strangers, but in the final years of her life, she opened her heart to the noisy, little, blonde boy who came careening into the place, tolerating him with supreme gentleness as he was learning to let her smell his hand before he began to pet her and gleefully announcing, "She's my buddy!"
I'm a woman, a Witch, a mother, a grandmother, an eco-feminist, a gardener, a reader, a writer, and a priestess of the Great Mother Earth. Hecate appears in the
Homeric Ode to Demeter, which tells of Hades who caught Persophone
"up reluctant on his golden car and bare her away lamenting. . . . But no one, either of the deathless gods or of mortal men, heard her voice, nor yet the olive-trees bearing rich fruit: only tenderhearted Hecate, bright-coiffed, the daughter of Persaeus, heard the girl from her cave . . . ."