Most of you who know me well know I am pretty much a cat person. I've had cats, either of my own or family-style, since I was born. Fifteen years ago, while I was living in Boston during one of my interludes away from Brown, my sister called and offered me a cat of my own. She and her husband had gotten him, thinking having a big cat would be cool. But at twenty full pounds of Maine Coon Cat, he turned out to be too much for the cats they already had, which prompted his being offered to me.

He'd been through a couple of owners before I got him; before my sister and her husband had him, and named him "Bullay" (Indonesian for "whitey," in reference to his unusually pale skin), he had been "Rusty," and had been determined to be unfit for being a show cat, probably due to a nick on his ear. Nevertheless, he was a handsome and elegant cat, with a rich coat, big paws, a forbidden tummy, and a massive tail. Vocally, he was a little challenged; he tended to trill or beep more than actually meow, and the closest he ever came to purring was a raspy wheeze.

Maine Coons are known for being smart, independent cats, and Daniel was that. He could be loving, and he could be demanding, but on the whole, he was his own cat. He didn't like to be held. I always called him a next-to cat, because he much preferred to curl up next to me than on me. But he did sleep with me, and, best of all, on cold mornings would be twenty pounds of self-heating fur curled up under the covers with me, keeping me warm.

When I moved out to California in 1995, I drove out and left him with my friend Lola and her girlfriend in Brighton, where they took great care of him, but inexplicably renamed him Harley. I soon flew back to the east coast specifically to collect him; flying him across country whacked out on kitty tranquilizers and in a carrier resembling a ventilated gym bag. I had to make arrangements with the airline that he would be the only pet in the cabin on the flight; I guess no one wants a cat fight at 40,000 feet.

Life in California was good for the most part. But, as Daniel aged, and my resources dwindled, we ended up in a small studio apartment in the Haight. It became apparent as the years passed that the place wasn't big enough for the both of us: he became more withdrawn and aggressive; we got into actual physical fights (ask me to show you the scars sometimes), and he learned how not using the litterbox could be a weapon.

Finally, by 2002 it became clear that we could no longer continue sharing the same space. We were actively getting on each others' nerves and picking fights constantly. But, I was lucky enough to find people that were willing to take him in, and he moved to Fresno with Joe, and his aunt and uncle, Nancy and Bob. Even when Joe left Fresno, they were kind enough to keep him, and give him a great home on a raisin vineyard, where he had all the space he needed, the ability to get outside and get exercise, and to be around people who doted on him and took good care of him. I was really happy and proud that they could give him what I couldn't.

Daniel got older and started showing signs of his age- not being able to move as well as he used to, and his hearing was deteriorating. But he was still king of the hill, with the other cat and dogs they had giving him the respect and deference he was due. Unfortunately his house-brokeness dissipated and he became a full-time outdoor cat.

Now Daniel was a stubborn cat, I know, because I am as stubborn as he is and have lots of battles under my belt to prove it. I always thought he was mean enough to outlast us all. I didn't get to see him during his last few years in Fresno, but I have it on good authority that from the moment he was put outside, he was determined to get back in, and I do believe it. I can imagine him plotting, sitting by the door, waiting for Bob or Nancy to come out with their hands full and slip inside before they noticed...

Well Bob and Nancy just bought property, packed up, and moved to Virginia earlier this month, and for a while, it was touch and go as to whether Daniel would be well enough to go with them. A 3,000 mile road trip is tough on anyone, especially a 16 year old cat. But, in typical fashion, he proved to be plenty resilient and proved that he was fit for the trip. For the drive, a large carrier, almost a cage, was purchased, giving him enough room to move around, stretch out, eat and drink, and use the litter box. And, as everyone was packing up, the carrier was set up and he was brought in with it to keep him corralled.

From what I hear, he couldn't have been happier to be in the carrier in the house- he'd won the battle of wills and made it back in the house. And he knew it- he was wheezing away, strutting around like he'd just won the lottery. And that's how I want to remember him, the proud tiger in the photo above, happy and king of the world.

But today, in Virginia, while he was sleeping on the back porch of their new house, a pack of local dogs broke into the yard, and attacked and killed him. Between being nearly deaf and being slow and aged, he didn't stand a chance. I'm still overwhelmed by the ugliness of his death. I spent many years hating that cat as much as I loved him, but I know for sure that he deserved better than that.

Goodbye Daniel. Chairman Meow has left the building.

For your enjoyment- new and revised photo galleries of my beautiful cats, O'Keefe and Kanga. I don't think it's too difficult to understand why I love my cats...

Well, I adopted a new kitty this weekend, and she came with a name already, but its one that I have no intention of keeping. So far, some of the names that have come to mind are: Marzipan, Melange, Nadia, Little Crissy, Patsy, Merritt, Miacomet, Kira, Jadzia, MetaKitty....

Nothing really productive as you can see... although who knows, one of these could end up being the final choice. Such a challenge for me; I want a name that both suits her and that I am OK with repeating for the next 20 years. I got it right with O'Keefe.

New kitten's photos are on the main page/photo page... if you have a good idea for a name for her, I would love to hear it.

So I just went to put on a clean t-shirt, and noticed the top drawer of my bureau was open about 3 inches. On a whim, I pulled it out, and there, among all my folded undies, was Keefie, all curled up and happy. I'm liking this new bureau more and more...