This isn't the same house that we left half an hour ago
with a carrier full of meows.
The carrier came back empty.
But oh! not so my heart.

Kachina the Bestest Cat.
Who in her salad days leapt five feet into the air
and caught yarn babies in her teeth
Who raced up the wall-hung rug like always
only to register the Epitome of Surprise to discover her declawed front feet had lost their stickiness.
This is not a good thing to discover when you're six feet up a wall. (A bed beneath, so surprise was the only injury.)

Kachina of the solemn mouth.
Of the long legs and long, elegant tail
held properly vertical as she trotted across that small concrete floor full of fighting, playing, feeding kittens right to my feet and looked up,
Knowing.

Kachina of the tiny white dot on the tip of her chin
and another one on the tip of her tail; they must have dipped her in the rich dark brindle-paint before sending her to Earth.
Kachina of the two pink toes, tender and ticklish and irresistible.
Of the scratchy little meow.
Of the squeak.
Of the Morning Scratch Ritual.

Kachina who could hear me get out the can opener from two floors and four rooms away
Whose inspection of each can had to certify that it wasn't tuna--and if it *was*, that proper tariff was paid.

Kachina of the tiny purr.
Of the silent presence, who could comfort just by being there.
Kachina who single-pawedly made a house a home.
Sixteen years! she reigned here, benevolent little despot.
Curled up in my aching heart now, loved forever.

Much tuna; many sunny windowsills; a limitless supply of fur-combers and neck-scratchers (for we all know Heaven, like Earth, *must* be operated for cats).

The *Best* Cat.
Kachina.