Just another old tabby cat, they'd whisper. Just another "stripety old tat", a child once exclaimed. No special markings; once even described as a "mutt cat." More often than not, dissed and dismissed. Not handsome, at least not in the big ol' Hollywood Tom Cat way. No special talents, nothing to make the humans laugh or applaud. Or so "they" said. I thought he was big and beautiful with an attitude to match. His eyes were twinkly and bright, like tiny green Christmas lights and his fur was so soft, it made my fingers tingle when I stroked it.

Knarly was the name he held when he came to me. At first I felt it denoted lack of respect. But he'd been answering (well, sort of) to that name for about two years in previous homes, so I figured we'd keep things simple. Kind of like "Hey, you!" - not exactly warm, but functional.

He was not the sort for toys, at least not the fuzzy or catnip-filled ones. Knarley's play things were dogs and since he had several canine siblings, it was easy to find entertainment - his, of course - and all at their expense. Even though he was an indoor cat, he'd spend many warm days on our screened-in back porch. Once, a small bird somehow got onto the porch with him and when I glanced out to check on him, I found the bird in his mouth. I told him to drop it and he did. Luckily for the bird, who quickly flew out the door I'd opened to the backyard, it was the only time Knarley ever actually did what I asked him to do, when I asked him to do it.

"Whack!" More than once I heard the sound of a kitty paw thumping the top of a trusting canine head whose only sin had been a curious sniff or a hello lick. Being declawed before we met, his blow never brought blood, just wounded pride. Knarley learned quickly that by merely raising his paw, he could control these panting, way-too-exuberant creatures who didn't seem to understand dog breath was insulting to delicate feline sensibilities.

He came to me third hand, or should I say third paw? He had auspicious beginnings, having been taken to a vet to be neutered and declawed when only a few months old by the First Family (of the non-White House variety.) No one ever returned for him. Home had turned into a carpet, rolled up and put aside.

The kind vet asked around and found another home for him. But that one was fraught with youthful forgetfulness of anything or anyone other than The Girl herself who had adopted him. From sources who knew The Girl, I learned Knarley had endured more than one stretch of foodless nights, sometimes up to three in a row, before someone came home, remembered "the cat" and cracked open the food bag. Knarley had learned early to find the food, then open it himself, ripping the packaging off until the kernels spilled forth his dinner. But once The Girl discovered that trick, the food bag was put into a closed cabinet and after that, when left alone, Knarley could only express his hunger with meows heard in vain by neighbors who had no key to get in and feed him.

Then, a new human arrived into The Girl's life, one who immediately declared his allergies to cats. Interesting since the new human smoked tobacco and marijuana like a chimney, seemingly without any respiratory distresses emerging.

"I guess I'll just take him to the humane society," was the statement made one day by The Girl during one of my visits with her and The New Human. Even though I was not in the room, the comment was made loudly enough so I would hear. Of course.

"Oh, don't do that," I replied, right on cue. "Just bring him up to my place - I'll take care of him."

Mission accomplished. He had been, after all, an afterthought in The Girl's life. and now was an inconvenience to The New Human. This was their way out. Given Knarley's surliness (but really, who could blame him?) a few people commented I had gotten the short end of the scratching post. But somehow, I always felt like the winner when it came to Knarley. I promised him the day he arrived I would care for him forever, that there would never be a home number four and that he would always have food whenever he wanted. We spent about eight more years together during which time I kept my promises.

OK, Knarley, throughout it all, you were sour and dour, conniving, like the times you'd knock items off the kitchen table, after checking the proximity of the dog below. Then, knowing full well an unsuspecting dog would be whacked on the head as an item fell to the floor, you slowly slid the item off the table. It was at those moments I recognized the sound of cat laughter.

You peed in the house, sometimes often, despite having all-clear medical reports from the vet and two litter boxes that were kept clean. But then, you had never had a litter box that was kept clean and I think you didn't know what to do with one. By the time you got to me, bad habits had been cemented.

You leaped over dogs on their way outside and actually ran off a few times, but never further than the neighbor's open garage door. You spent a lot of time outdoors while with the "First Family." Once here, you were not permitted to be an outdoor cat, so I suppose you needed a break once in a while. Even though I knew you never went far, I could never fall asleep until you returned, safe and sound.

Knarley was never sick a day in his life.

Until the cancer.

It came hard. Fast. The tumor on his left hind leg seemed to appear and swell overnight. Fibrosarcoma, the vet announced. There were alternatives. Amputation of the leg, of a radical nature, taking part of the hip as well as the leg. Chemo for months. Then radiation. Pain? Yes, pain, they said. More pain. For maybe only six more months of life.

I cried for two days trying to find the answer to the question: "What is the best way to honor the life of just another old tabby cat?"

The sun was bright and warm on our faces the day Knarley was released from the unfairness of this world. I wrapped my arms around him in the vet's office and he responded by curling his paws around my hands. I sang him goodbye, petting that soft fur, loving him for being just another tabby cat. He went peacefully and with dignity.

We wrapped you in the blue blanket The Girl gave me the day you came home with me, Knarley, the one she said you slept on as a young cat. It was the only possession you had at that time. We buried you beside J.R., the primary unwitting canine target during the kitchen table games.

You will be missed here. Until one day, my stripety old tat, when we'll all meet again at Rainbow Bridge.