I was ten years old when I met my best friend.

A girl in my class brought her in for show and tell, along with her siblings. She was the owner of their mother and the family hoped some of the students would want to adopt the kittens.

One of these kittens crawled into my desk and curled up. There wasn’t anything particularly special to most people upon looking at the cat. Domestic tabby short-haired, all grey and black. She may not have looked special, but I instantly knew.

I turned to the girl who brought them in and said that I wanted that kitten, begged her to not let anyone else adopt her. I needed that cat. I went home and pleaded with my mother to let me bring a pet home, to add to the cat and dog we already had.

A few days later, we brought the little bundle of fur home. There was some argument over what to name her. I initially thought of Isis, because Egypt is super-cool… But mostly because I’m a Batman geek and that was the name of Selina Kyle’s cat on the Animated Series. But it didn’t fit her. “Ashes” was then suggested, because of her colouring. Eventually we settled on “Asha”… Which over the years gained nicknames of “Asharam” and then “Rammer”. I’ve also always been fond of “Ashabelly” and “Ashabutt”.

I cannot overstate how absolutely extraordinary this cat has been. She was utterly fearless, darting outside when ever she had the chance. I spent many nights sitting outside with a can of catfood trying to lure her back in. But she was a clever girl and figured out what window was mine and if she jumped onto the roof of the shed that she could get to my window, telling me she wanted to come inside. I once got a nasty shock when I thought she’d jumped up onto my window then realized she was actually sitting on my bed and it was a racoon at the window!

She had big, jack-rabbit-like back feet that she used to make incredible jumps. She used to love to jump and climb up onto the top of the kitchen cabinets. She would sit up there and watch the world go by. She could get down on her own, but often I would have to get a chair to bring her down.

She once jumped up about three feet in the air in an attempt to catch a bird. She was this close to getting it in mid-air. Had she not been declawed in the front, I’m sure she would’ve done it.

That’s not to say she didn’t capture things occasionally. Believe me, I know. I vividly remember Asha jumping into my lap and when I reached down to pet her realizing she had a whole, live mouse in her mouth, backside and tail sticking out. I screamed and jumped and her prey got away, skittering under my bed. I shrieked until my mother came to collect the traumatized rodent.

She was so, so very clever. She knew that doors opened because the knobs were turned. So she would jump up and try to grab the knob with her paws. Damn that lack of opposable thumbs! But that rhythmic noise of her throwing herself against the door always told me when she wanted to come into my room.

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Or I should really say our room. Wherever I went, that was where Asha wanted to be. She loved to curl up on my feet or when I would sleep curl up in the small of my back or in the crook of my knees, often getting right under the covers so she was warm. As she got older and was unable to throw herself at the door any longer, she would cry at the door to be let in. She just wanted to be with me.

She would follow me around. I could go from the living room all the way up to my bedroom, which eventually was up two flights of stairs and she would be with me every step of the way. My mum called her my shadow. If she followed me downstairs and I stopped in the bathroom, she would wait patiently outside the door. When I left, she would continuing following me down into the kitchen.

She loved to be warm. When we still let the cats go into the basement, she would go down while my mum was doing laundry and climb into the dryer, sitting on top of the still warm sheets. When we renovated the living room, she loved the fire. When she started to find it hard to get up to my bedroom, that became her second home.

But right up until the end, she tried to get up to spend time with me. She struggled, having lost the use of one of her legs, but she still tried to get up the stairs to be with me. Eventually, I just decided to stay in the living room so I’d be with her and she wouldn’t have to hurt herself getting to me.

I’ve never met a cat who enjoyed snuggling as much as her. She loved to sit on my lap, to drape herself over my arm, to sit on my feet. She didn’t complain or try to escape when I held her. Once, when we had a gas alarm go off in the early hours of the morning, we had to spend over an hour outside in a firetruck while the firemen examined the house. I’d grabbed Asha off the bed and carried her outside with me. She sat quietly curled up inside of my hoodie.

She was my girl. She sat with me while I was in the depth of depression. She would pat her paw at me to try and get treats. She would perk up and walk around my mother when I would go away and I would call home. She knew who Mum was talking to.

When I hear about people who give away their pets without a second thought, I’m horrified, because of Asha. She was not just a pet. She was my best friend. For twenty-one year, she was my girl, my shadow. My life was so much richer for having her in it and the hole she leaves is unimaginable.

I have loved her every day since that tiny ball of fur climbed into my desk and I will never, ever stop.

Asha 1993-2014
The Best Furred Friend A Girl Could Ask For