I never knew exactly how old Rosie was or what her early life was like. All I know is that in 1997, she and nine other cats from her household ended up at the Homer Animal Shelter. In the chaos of a broken marriage, the animals were discarded.

It was a whim that made me bring her home. I was taking her housemate, Boo Boo, and figured if I was going to get in trouble for bringing one cat home, why not make it two?

I never regretted it.

Rosie had a much more out-going personality than Boo Boo. She was used to chaos and expected abuse, so her first steps were tentative but once she realized she could relax around us and trust our love, she was devoted and companionable.

I still don't know what killed her. All I know is that in the winter of 2002, she gradually lost interest in eating. As her weight dropped, we tried to discover what was causing her to waste away. Blood work, x-rays, even exploratory surgery gave us no clue. We tried medications to perk up her appetite to no avail. I force-fed her for the last six weeks of her life, hating myself for making her do what she clearly didn't want to do. Her acceptance of the ritual made me feel even worse. In the end, she was tired and worn and ready to go, so I had to let her, though it wasn't easy.

I can only be comforted in knowing that in the years she was with us, she knew only love and security. And I still miss her.