The End of the Adventures with Mrs. Wigglebottom

Mrs. Wigglebottom had a real name, which I didn’t use on the blog in order to preserve her anonymity. It was Sadie. Her name was Sadie. She died how she lived–well-loved, fed ridiculous shit that wasn’t good for her, and, in keeping with her recent habits, peeing on the Butcher.

Her death was sad, but she died here on the couch and it was just like they promised. She went to sleep and then she died. And then the Butcher dug a hole and we put her in it.

It’s so sad I can’t even tell you. Coming home this evening and not having anyone to let out just about brought me to my knees. But I’m also feeling great relief. The vet told us she had a huge mass in her abdomen and, if it had burst, her death would have been messy and unbearably painful. So, I’m very grateful that we were able to spare her that.

And now I’m tired and frazzled and heartbroken.

Family Traditions

No matter what they look like—hair braided up and laced with trinkets and charms that announce their trade from yards away or bandanas that hide their faces, butcher knife or athame, in a group or alone—the witches who learn their craft on the internet are all alike at heart. They all “learned from their grandma who has passed down to them their authentic witchcraft traditions” and they all believe white sage will cleanse a space.

Everyone can’t have a Native American grandma; but white sage only grows in one spot. So, you know, as informative as their grandmas may have been, someone’s been peaking at the Great Screen of Common Knowledge.

And that’s how it goes. Something works, it gets shared. But it also means that we’re losing some of the really awesome scary stuff that used to be standard witchcraft.

One of the first things my grandmother taught me was how to conjure up a demon, catch it by the foot, and tie it to me with a fine piece of silver wire. Oh, how we’d show off—all us cousins—to each other, the red welts the wire wore in our wrists. Those faint white scars are how we recognize each other—too thin for suicide attempts and wrapping all the way around.

Conjuring a small demon was, literally kid’s stuff. Sure, sometimes it went wrong. But, if you died, then we all knew you weren’t cut out for the Craft.

But when was the last time you saw a kid with a demon? It’s been years.

So, I thought, why not teach the grand-nephew? He’s ten. That’s twice as old as I was. But a little cafeteria fire, two extra legs on a social studies teacher, and one thing his mom “can’t even talk about,” and suddenly I’m the bad guy. A danger to my own grand-nephew. He wasn’t even hurt!

So, I said to him, “Well, even traditions have to change with the times. You come to see me when you’re eighteen and we’ll get you a demon then.”

Meanwhile, I’ve been showing the demon how to use the Internet. Maybe it can help these youngsters with their old Craft.