My cat was killed last night by a hit-and-run driver right in front of the house. She hadn’t been outside too long but I guess the allure of checking out neighbor kitty’s domain was too much to resist.

She was a fine cat. A talico-tabby that I adopted from the pound in ’89, she was head-strong and demanding, as all cats tend to be. When she wanted to be petted she had a way of burrowing her head under an available hand as if to say, “There, I’ve done the hard part of lifting your hand into place, now please just move those fingers of yours and scratch me a bit.” Recently she also started to play peek-a-boo with my wife when we would lie in bed. If Pauline would pull the sheet over her head, Tasha would extend a paw and pull the sheet down and then keep her paw on Pauline’s chin while proceeding to doze off.

Tasha in the catnip

Yet, she was sick. Diagnosed with eosiniphilic granuloma almost two years ago now, she was getting monthly depomedrol shots to control the inflammation in her mouth. And maybe as a result of that she starting pulling her hair out along her flanks a few months ago. She was looking mangy, and would sometimes drool, but we still loved her. I would let her out of her carrier on the way back from the monthly vet visit and she would ride in the car’s passenger seat with her front paws perched on the dashboard, watching the world go by at what must have seemed like an astonishing pace. She was very cute when she did that.

So long Tasha. We’ll miss you.