My cat died today.

She was old - 19 or 20, I've lost count. Either way, that's about two-thirds of my life. She was a skinny slip of a black cat, more fur and skin than anything else, with almost laughably tiny ears.

We named her Retsil. There's a town off Puget Sound in Washington State called Retsil. The ferry to the town across the water was an adorably small all-black boat. After we got back from Washington twenty years ago, we got an adorably small all-black kitten. The name seemed to fit.

When I was in junior high, she used to climb onto my chest and lick my face until I made her stop. That was the clearest the pores in my nose have ever been.

When she was a kitten, she was practically invisible. She'd vanish for hours at a time. We finally discovered that she was sleeping in the far corner under my dresser, a tiny fuzzball back in the dark.

We had these big pink easy chairs she used to love sleeping on. She'd climb to the top of the back of the chair, and let her forepaws hang down the back of the chair, her chin resting between them.

She was a nervous cat, but a friendly one. She didn't like to hold still, she was always pacing back and forth, back and forth. Petting Retsil was always vaguely comical - she would walk over, you'd pet her head a few times, she'd run to the other side of the room, wait a second, and then trot back. She'd keep that up as long as you were willing.

She started as an indoor-outdoor cat, but at some point moved outside full time, refusing to come back in. We used to feed her on the back balcony. She would carefully climb up a tree to the balcony, eat, and then climb back down again, looking back over he shoulder the whole way. That tree is covered with vertical scratches along its whole trunk.

I always used to worry about her on Halloween - that some wierdo would find a black cat and do something to her. I'd always out on November first as soon as I could to see if she was okay. She always was.

She would never get out of the rain. It would be pouring, and she'd be crouched in the mud under a tree, with water dripping on her head. I always used to build her a house at the start of winter - somewhere dry and out of the wind with her food. She would always stare incredulously at me while I put it together. She'd move in a few nights later.

Finally, she was getting old enough we brought her back inside and didn't let her out again. She moved into what used to be my room. Her favorite spot was just next to the same dresser she used to sleep under. She couldn't fit under it anymore, but she would always sleep right next to the same corner she always used to.

Once, when we brought Isabel over, Retsil came wandering out of her room to see what the fuss was about. She was ancient by cat standards, and old cats and babies never mix well. Isabel was beyond excited - it was all her grandmother could do to keep her contained. Restil padded over to get a closer look at the baby. Isabel's hand shot out towards the cat, a huge grin splitting her face.

"Here it comes," I thought. "One of those two is about to get bitten."

Restil calmly turned her head and let the baby fondle it. Isabel got a fistful of fur, and Restil didn't even twitch. When Isabel was done, Restil quietly padded back to her room.


Thanks, Retsi.