Happy October, you animals. This month has always been a favourite of mine—which should be rather unsurprising if you have ever beheld me in person and witnessed my wardrobe of long coats and cotton sweaters, but, that is besides the point. October is also the brief window of the year where we as a collective species get to experience the cooler side of the sun without Seasonal Affective Disorder taking complete control of our lives just yet, because, you know, pumpkins and whatnot. 

However, this October I will not be relishing in any spooky festivities, and will abstain from spending the last of my savings at the Student Centre Starbucks on my beloved festive chai latte because this October, I am in mourning. 

No, Gator is not dead. I will not even speak that thought into the universe because he is my little boy and he will live forever and nobody can tell me otherwise. 

My sweet, fat, orange boy is not, however, protecting London Street as one might imagine Batman looming over Gotham City, because he has temporarily returned to my parent’s house. This decision came, as my co-editors can attest, with me questioning at minimum three times a day whether or not I could give Gator the life he deserves in my little two bedroom apartment.

I’ve heard about mother’s guilt before and I can attest that it is real and has haunted me for the past several months. As a mother of a seven year old feline who I raised since he was a mere orange gremlin, this decision prematurely aged me about fourty years.

Gator has become a pillar in this community, one I don’t think could survive with his prolonged absence. I promise you, dear Arthurians, that once I commit grand larceny (this is a joke) Anna Delvey style (Stu Betts don’t come for me), this city will shine bright once again when our King returns to his rightful hovel alongside a lowly student newspaper editor. 

If anyone has felt the tingle of seasonal affective disorder these past few weeks, or are otherwise in denial re: Phoebe Bridgers Christmas album, I can assure you it’s simply fat orange little guy withdrawal spreading over the city since Gator’s departure. I fully recognize my absurdity in writing this, as each issue I lean further and further into the crazy cat lady archetype (which I welcome wholeheartedly, by the way), but I know I am not the only one who loves this sweet boy in an unhealthy manner. 

As the Arthur inbox can attest, you freaks love that freak almost as much as I do. I otherwise live in delusion in many other aspects of my life, but this I know for sure fact. 

Anyways, back to my plotting—I’m thinking somewhere in the avenues—nice, but not too nice, as I am well aware I have an ego problem I need to keep in check. Definitely a fenced in yard, a garden I can pretend to care very deeply about, telling my friends very nonchalantly “I grew this, by the way” during dinner parties I’ll host as a new homeowner. The vibes will be grandma-core with a hint of boho, a backyard fire pit to burn extra Arthurs that sit in our office issue after issue, and an obnoxious home library with floor to ceiling shelves. You know, practical.

I’ll give Gator his own room, obviously, as I am too introverted to stomach living with anyone besides my boy and his mechanical fish he drags behind him, which has become somewhat of a noise issue at 4:00 in the morning as the methodical thump thump thump rings through the halls. I recognize the implications of putting any roommates through this. 

Not that he would use it as we both have an unhealthy co-dependency issue that deepened with the two-ish years I didn’t leave my house as something or other was in the air. 

This is all to say, I am sad and need everyone to know it. Though my visitations with my fat orange little guy have been limited from every waking and sleeping moment to now the odd weekend, his spirit lingers on in this dim city. October remains a solemn month I am imposing on the readership as we all collectively mourn his absence and stand in solidarity with my larcenous aspirations to get our boy back!

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