A friend of mine used to humorously refer to her as "the world's most beautiful cat." The truth is, everyone who is blessed to live with a cat considers their furred one the most beautiful in the world. Muffy came into her full beauty rather late in life, though she was always quite pretty. As with women, her true beauty was not just in her coloring and her form, but in the deep wisdom of her eyes.

She was adopted from the flea market when she was six weeks old, picked seemingly at random from a box of identical golden fluff balls. The flea market was appropriate, as it turns out, because she was covered in fleas. Her first experience in her new home was a bath, which she howled her displeasure at. Looking back now over more than 20 years, I am surprised at how casually I took having a cat in my life. No trips to the vet, no nonsense about keeping her in the house, and (as I now know better) no spaying. Muffy became a mother at one year old. She went into labor on a day I was home sick from work, and was clearly terrified, as was I, who had no knowledge of the ways of pregnant kittens. I sat on the floor beside the box we had set up for her to give birth in, as Muffy tried again and again to crawl into my lap. Firmly setting her back in the box each time, I watched helplessly as she finally began to birth her kittens. One... two.... three.... four.... all golden as their mother and all healthy. Muffy seemed to be done, and I dragged my feverish and snuffly body back to bed for a nap. Upon awakening, I went to the birthing box to find not four kittens, but five! The last one a surprising grey striped tabby.

Muffy enjoyed her kittens, but like many women, she enjoyed her grandchildren even more (see picture below of Muffy and her granddaughter). When her daughter Diana gave birth, Muffy (now spayed) reveled in their play and took tender care of them, as well as teaching them exquisite manners, just as she had taught her own kittens. My friends used to laugh at the way I would gently say "Get down, please, Muffy" in a polite tone, always respectful of her dignity. But that respect was returned, and Muffy always – well, almost always – was well-behaved and cooperative, traits she passed on to all her offspring. This isn't to say she didn't have a will of her own. Muffy was a queen, and she was never in any way subservient or "pet-like" with me. We were equals – if I was lucky! But she was peace-loving and worked with me to create a peaceful relationship that lasted eighteen wonderful years.

As my life circumstances changed, partners and other cats came and went, but Muffy was a constant. Our relationship deepened over a few years when we lived alone together. The communion of her wide amber eyes gazing into mine with such intelligence and understanding is something I will always cherish, as is the memory-feel of her soft warmth under the covers with me at night. For most of her life, she spent her nights in the curve of my body, curled up against my chest, purring me to sleep. She would wait until I got settled in, then would walk across my pillow and stare at me until I lifted the blankets for her to come inside. Just to be near me wasn't enough – Muffy wanted SKIN. If I wasn't quick enough in responding, she would give her distinctive nasal meow, and if that weren't enough, a light cuff to the nose. "Okay, okay!" and she would burrow in, contented. She learned early on that if she was restless I would kick her out, so she always settled right down, carefully tucking her paws under to avoid scratching me. Sometimes in her contentment she would start to involuntarily knead, but all I had to do was say, "Watch the claws, please," and she would tuck them under again, even though sometimes I could see her struggling with the impulse.

Muffy's voice was once described by a friend as being like an upper-class Brit who spoke through clenched teeth. Whatever the tone, she was talkative and I got into the habit of addressing her like I would any other friend – never any baby talk or condescension. I truly do believe she understood every word I said, and many I didn't say. Her psychic connection to me was commented on by everyone we knew, and her ability to read my mind was both reassuring and startling. She would mirror my moods and exaggerate them, so that if I was anxious, her anxious voice questioning me would make it worse, and on and on. But she also had a great sense of humor, and enjoyed my jokes (or at least, pretended she did). She had a particular way of closing her eyes and smiling, turning her head to the side, which I learned was her way of laughing. She loved to play and run, and was an excellent huntress, although she didn't like to eat or even kill her prey, but preferred to bring them into the house and chase them around. I came into the living room one day to find Muffy in a frenzy, pulling books out of a bookcase where she had playfully tossed a live mole. I rescued the mole and set it free, much to her annoyance.

Muffy had a very full and fortunate life, with a few traumas – we were once separated for six weeks, and she grieved herself sick while I was away. She stopped grooming herself, and was a mass of fleas when I returned. That first night, fleas and all, I held her close as she trembled in my arms, her emotion almost unbearable for both of us. True to form, she recovered quickly, though she didn't let me out of her sight again for some time. In the last few years of her life, she was rarely apart from me for very long. She confined her wanderings to the front yard, where she liked to sit in a flower pot and greet passersby. Muffy was always very sociable, to people and other animals alike, and had her friends in the neighborhood, some of whom even I didn't know. Smiling, I would hear them greet her as they passed, and once a neighbor said to me, "Oh, you're the one with the pink cat!" Muffy was rather pink, a color not quite cream, not quite pure golden, but with an under-shimmer of rosiness.

She was healthy and happy for so many years, though she slowed down a little in the last year of her life, imperceptibly except to those who knew her best. She became ill just a week before she died, a terrible week though mercifully short. Muffy refused food and water, and the vet said there was little to do but help her through her passing when the time came. Those last days, Muffy stayed with me every moment, lying under my desk as she had always done when I worked, her head resting on my foot. She followed me from room to room, though it was clearly painful for her and my heart ached to watch her. Our longtime connection seemed to intensify as she drew closer to her death, though she was in a meditative state much of the time – "One paw in the Otherworld," as a friend said. I could feel so clearly that she was fearful of leaving me – not for herself, but for me. Lying close beside her, I told her again and again that I would be all right (though my breaking heart said otherwise, and I'm sure I didn't fool her a bit), that I would miss her, and that I would look for her return.

On the morning of the spring equinox, Muffy woke me at 4:00, clearly in pain and distress, and very clearly told me that it was time. In the chilly dark of pre-dawn, I quickly prepared a traveling box for her and gently placed her in it. In the car, my hand on her the whole time, I softly sang, "All will be well, all will be well, all manner of things shall be well..." as we made the trip across town to the emergency animal hospital. They were prepared for her coming, and no one else was there. I spent a few moments alone with Muffy, and as she laid her beautiful head down for the last time in death – so graceful! so gentle! – my parting words were "Please return to me soon."

Anyone who has lost a beloved animal companion knows what my feelings were on that morning. Returning home alone to the empty house, where for eighteen years I had been greeted by my dear friend, was only bearable because I knew what a full life she enjoyed. She lived in several different places, fully exploring the surroundings at will. She slept in the sun, chased butterflies in a flower-filled garden, curled up before the fire and dreamed wild cat dreams. She was admired and liked by so many friends. When my house-cleaner Heather came in the morning of Muffy's death to see a candle burning beside her picture, she burst into tears, tears that were shared by others as they bid farewell to a very special cat.

Throughout her life, I used to tell Muffy that I wanted her to be sure to come back to me after she died, because I couldn't imagine life without my Muffy-cat. I asked her to come back as a long-haired Siamese mix, so I would be sure to recognize her. I even had a name picked out, T'Pau, after a mysterious high-priestess on Star Trek. "No promises," Muffy would tell me telepathically and humorously. As she approached death, my grief and sense of loss so overpowered me that I couldn't imagine ever opening my heart to another cat, yet I still told her that I would watch for that Siamese kitten, that I would always watch for her and welcome her.

One day not long after Muffy's passing, I was suddenly struck with the thought that I needed to go to the animal shelter – right then, in the middle of a workday! There were so many beautiful animals there, all needing loving homes. But I had made a promise to Muffy, and would wait and watch for her return. After making a tour of all the cages, I noticed a door off to the side and asked the shelter volunteer what it was. "Animals that aren't ready for adoption yet," she replied. "Can I go look?" "Sure," she said, and we went into the smaller room together. There was one cage that had a towel draped across the front to give the occupant some privacy, and I lifted a corner to take a peek. A big mama cat with seven tiny babies lay within, the kittens all different colors and patterns. From that furry pile, one kitten arose and wobbled to the front of the cage, looked up into my eyes and uttered a tiny "Meep!" I felt as if an arrow had been shot straight into my heart. For this tiny white kitten with the grey-tipped ears and tail and the big blue eyes was without a doubt the one I had been watching for. I knew it as I have known few sure things in my life. It was a miracle. (The picture below is the kitten standing on my shoulder, age about 6 weeks.)

Miracles are all very well, but it took a lot of bureaucratic maneuvering and some angelic fostering care from my friend Sabina, before the kitten came to live with me. Muffy had liked other cats and enjoyed their company, so this time I took on a cat family, adopting not only little "T'Pau" but siblings Morpheus and Willow as well.

But Muffy had the last laugh, for "T'Pau" turned out to be, yes, a long-haired Siamese, but .... male! Now named Kaga-san, in the first few months of his life, I could feel Muffy's spirit in him so strongly that my grief was assuaged. He will be four in the spring of 2004, and he has his own very distinct personality – protective, generous, romantic. But Muffy's wisdom shines in his blue eyes, and I know my companion, my familiar, my most beloved friend is still with me.

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