This is Shasta. He turned eight in early March and he’s been a part of our little family (me, my wife and our other cat, Keefer) for most of that time.

Shasta is my wife’s cat, and how. The quintessential momma’s boy, he’s fiercely loyal to her. If she’s at her desk, he’s there too, lying on the papers or sitting on the keyboard. If she’s in the kitchen, he’s right there alongside, trying to mooch ham, noodles, or any of his other favourite people-foods. When she’s sitting on the couch, he’s often perched on the headrest right above her, arms hanging off into the air in his flying-kitten pose. Best of all, when she’s sad or sick, Shasta always knows how to make her feel better.

Shasta loves to play. He plays fetch better than a lot of dogs I know. Picture a sixteen-pound cat hurtling himself down a hallway after a tiny toy mouse, sliding on the rug and then trotting back towards you, triumphant, his prey perched daintily in his jaws, ready to do it all over again. That’s Shasta. His other favourite games include running laps around the apartment, trying to catch the feather-on-a-stick, and this funny combination of peek-a-boo and being chased by my wife.

This picture describes Shasta perfectly; quiet and contemplative. He rarely meows; rather, he makes this awesome trilling noise when he’s happy and wants to play (or when there’s something outside that he want to play with…). Unlike Keefer, who purrs pretty much non-stop, Shasta reserves his for when he’s truly happy — usually when he’s getting a really good belly scratch or chin rub.

I said earlier that he’s a momma’s boy, and that’s true, but he and I have our moments as well. They’re usually late at night, after my wife’s gone to bed; he’ll hop up next to me on the couch arm, take a flying leap across my lap (he’s a really good jumper) and lie next to me and let me give him scratches.

On Friday last, Shasta went into the vet for some dental work (I kept telling him to brush his teeth, but he never listens to me). The procedure requires anesthesia and, about an hour in, Shasta’s blood pressure dropped and they weren’t able to get it back. He never woke up.

The picture below is a tail marker. It means ‘end of trail — gone home’, or ‘I’ve gone home’. It has special meaning to us Scouts; when someone passes away, we say they’ve Gone Home.

I’ve written the above in the present tense because, although Shasta has gone home, he’s still here with us, and always will be, in our hearts and our memories.

If you have pets, give them some extra love and treats tonight.

Sleep well, my friend. Mommy, Keefer and I love you, and we miss you very much.

March 9, 2000 - March 28, 2008