Cat people know that while many cats may come and go throughout your lifetime, and all of them are loved and unique in their own feline ways, only a few are truly special. There is just something about some of them — their personality, your bond — that when they go, you know you’ll never have another one quite like that cat. There’s just something in their aura that sets them apart. 

Persephone was one such cat. 

She was a dainty orange lady of indeterminate age who passed on to her next of nine lives last weekend due to kidney failure. Like many sick kitties, she was okay-ish for a long time and then went downhill quickly. She made it clear it was her time to go. Persephone was a very good communicator. 

She was a real people person. I mean, cat. Any new visitors to our house would be greeted by her, unless she was busy napping. Then they had to go to her. She was probably the friendliest cat I’ve ever seen; I never saw her turn down a scritch on the head. Persephone didn’t even mind being picked up. She would ride around on my wife’s shoulder like a fluffy pirate’s parrot.

She adopted me as well; when I got up in the middle of the night to feed Sonny, she would usually be curled up on my pillow by the time I got back. My wife always said I could just move her, but she seemed so comfortable I hated to disturb her. So, I usually just shared the pillow and wore her like a little hat. She was doglike in her affection and came when my wife called her by making little kissy noises. The dogs also came running when she made that noise, which was less than thrilling for Persephone. 

But she tolerated the dogs. She and my old gal Janey, who has extensive cat experience, gave each other a wide and respectful berth. Karma kept trying, for the duration of their entire acquaintance, to make best friends with her. (After the first week wherein Karma thought Persephone was perhaps a new mobile snack.)

Persephone had no interest in playing with a 50- pound bulldog, so she occasionally had to give Karma the ol’ skibbidi-bop across the snout. And to really keep Karma on her toes, occasionally she would reach over from whatever tuffet she was lounging on — couch, kitchen chair, end of bed — and smack her in the face if she got too close. But she never used her claws. 

When we brought Sonny home, Persephone spent so much time curled up next to him on the nursing pillow (they were both on the small side) that we started calling her my lactation consultant. We also had a running joke that she was a licensed real estate agent and also a dental hygienist. (“She’s so busy,” I would say as Persephone trotted by, clearly in the middle of urgent cat business. “Because she’s a very smart cat,” my wife would say.) 

When I was growing up, my brother and I had a cranky orange cat who taught us not to grab tails. I figured Persephone would do the same for Sonny. Nope. As soon as he figured out he had hands, he started grabbing stuff with them, including the cat’s tail. She did nothing except move about a foot away to lie back down.

Then, she figured out that Sonny’s hands were, in fact, human hands, even though they were very small and not particularly agile. So she started doing what she did with all human hands: shoving her head underneath them to ask for pets. Sonny obliged to the best of his abilities. I think that’s the part of her death that saddens me the most — that my son won’t get to grow up with her. 

Despite her doglike loyalty, Persephone was a lot less loud and in-your-face than our canine companions, except for right after she’d had a bowel movement. Then she would yowl and run around the house in a circle. She constantly found herself in places she’d been specifically told were Not For Kittens, like the basement and the baby’s diaper-changing tabletop (she loved napping on that thing). We didn’t even bother to fight her on it when she took up her winter residence of the towel closet. 

Persephone spent six years looking after my wife. She was a well-traveled cat — Maine to North Carolina and back again, from Lewiston to Wiscasset and back again. Everywhere she went she made her own. She looked out many windows, napped in many sunspots and sat on each and every Amazon package that came through our door. I was used to her always being in the corner of my eye. Now there’s only shadows, and occasionally Karma, sniffing around wondering where her friend has gone.