Just over three years ago, our beautifully regal Bigkitty died. He'd been sick for a long time, and although he was only ten years old, we weren't left with much of a choice. I saw a cat that looked just like him yesterday, so shiny and black and handsome, and I started to cry. If you are not an animal lover, read no further, 'cuz you just won't get it.

His death was one of the most painful moments of my life to date. For that, I'm lucky - I realize this. Part of me understands why I still get so upset, why I miss him so much. It's because I'm an overly-emotional person, and because having that cat in my life changed me forever. Bigkitty was magic.

Bigkitty used to jump into bed with us at night, step carefully over Mr. Crabby, and sit by my pillow, poking my shoulder with his paw until I scooched over to make room for him under the covers. He'd swat at guests at the dinner table in an effort to purloin forbidden morsels from their plates. He left me alone when my headaches were too severe, and he cuddled up beside me when he knew it would help. He was always right. He was chatty. He stroked our faces with his paw. He forgave us for burdening him with two new kittens. When Mr. Crabby left for three months to work in another town, Bigkitty sat by the front door for three long days before finally giving up his vigil for my proffered tin of salmon.

I'm so sad today. Please come over and hold my hand.