I never thought I would write another one of these. This column was born out of a fun, lighthearted introductory editorial in which I placed my grave on top of a hill that marked me as a girl whose only personality trait is her cat and, after the first instalment, I honestly ran out of things to say. 

If anything, writing about my fat orange cat kept me consistent during the busy school year. The writers of Volume 58 can attest that at our weekly Story Meetings, my updates would mostly consist of promises to fulfill my next Gator update in print, and swearing to answer the Gator fan mail in my inbox.

Overlooking the obvious lack of inspiration that plagued me for the majority of the year, the problem lies in that I am terrible with deadlines—especially when I set them myself. This column was once my favourite part of each issue. Writing nonsensical fiction about my cat that readers genuinely enjoyed is something I never thought possible when publishing my initial editorial where I had more to say about my cat than myself. 

I left this column with rather a sour taste in my mouth after using my little guy as a vessel to vent about a rather unfortunate run-in I had with someone who took Nietzsche a little too seriously. Honestly, I have felt rather gross about digging it up ever since. 

When transitioning from Volume 58 to the Summer Serial, I sparingly joked about writing another Gator Goes Global, but no prompts or bursts of inspiration felt genuine. The truth of it was that Gator lived with me in the Fall, and then moved back home to my mother’s house in the Winter. Gator updates are rather hard to write when the boy himself isn’t there, and the girl would rather not think about this fact. 

On this note, I have never read the Bible and I've never gone to church. My understanding of religion comes from pop culture and whatever anecdotes I pick up from my ex-Christian friends. The one story from the Bible that has always stuck with me, however, is the story of a great flood causing a cataclysmic shift in the universe.

It makes sense then, that after my mother’s house was nearly destroyed in a flash flood that sank the boonies I was raised in, Gator would make his triumphant return to Peterborough.

As soon as I heard the news that He would soon land once again in my arms and after Gator-proofing my apartment (moving my plants higher on my bookshelf), I sent a message to my co-editors stating plainly that “the boy is back”.

It’s then that Evan Robins prophesied this return as an omen for the rebirth of Gator Goes Global. Time for a redemption. 

After receiving a frantic call from my mother that my childhood home was about two feet underwater and quickly rising, I was en route to save the boy before the call was over. My mother dubbed my two-bedroom apartment in downtown Peterborough as Gator’s “home away from home”, but real readers of this column will know that is not quite true.

Gator is a figment of Arthur and Arthurians alike. Future editors will look back at the archive in many years’ time and wonder what the fuck I was doing. My fat orange little guy (who, after leaving my care for a few months, has gotten not so little) now sits atop my kitchen counter, nose pointed in the sunbeam from my window, reclaiming his rightful place in the heart of this city. 

Though his return is limited to a two-week window (or however long it takes the insurance company to fix my mother’s house), his time must be well spent. On the car ride to pick him up, I placed a $45 order for treats, toys, and a top-of-the-line litter box—a plastic throne, so to speak. 

The paralyzing anxiety to make the most of His return keeps me awake at night, I can’t even lie. It took Gator about 20 minutes to acclimate to my apartment before he was knocking down my rather obnoxious Stanley tumbler and crying when I leave him to take a shower. 

It’s just like old times, truly.

Peterborough’s son has been back in my care for under a week now, and I’m determined to pack as much into our limited itinerary as possible before the boy is taken away once again. 

This past Saturday, I took Gator to see the infamous Indian River Dinosaur Park and although Gator’s name signifies a certain ancient reptile, its origins came from a different sort of pimp. 

It came as no surprise, then, that he couldn’t care less for the living reptiles in the zoo, he sees himself as more macho than them anyways. Rather, the mechanical fossils were undoubtedly his favourite part. The little guy felt at home when surrounded by apex predators towering over the lesser creatures, feeling a longing to once again taunt his two beagle companions that remain with my mother. 

In their absence, Gator taunts my shoelaces instead. 

Our next stop was a renowned landmark in which possibility cannot be defined by acreage (85). To be honest, I had no interest in showing Gator a tiny roundabout or a few benches. I just wanted a nice, empty field where my boy could run around, catch some field mice in a picturesque location, and prance around on the grounds designed for innovation—just dude stuff. 

It was a merry time until we were egregiously accosted by a man with gelled hair yelling “COLLABORATION IS AT THE HEART OF EVERYTHING WE DO! INVEST IN YOUR FUTURE!” We left in a hurry soon after, watching flailing pamphlets in the rear-view mirror of my boyfriend's Honda Civic. The field was overrated anyway.

I write this column now with just over a week left to cherish the time my fat little guy has with me in this city, and I’m feeling a soft veil of peace fall over me as I dredge this column from its grave. If you have felt your life significantly improve in the past week, don’t look to the stars for answers—look right here. 

‍For complimentary Gator pictures (I have so, so many) or ideas for Gator’s next outing, email me at editors@trentarthur.ca with the subject line “The Return of the King”