Taradactyl, or 'dactyl for short, was the little cinnamon roll Abyssinian. Food was her life. As a kitten, she flew across the floor up on the couch and onto a plate of pork chops and rice. She didn't run but those little legs moved swiftly when the BBQ chicken was served. Even with hardly any teeth, with food diced into small bits, she hoovered it.

Taradactyl was a personable kitteh, were I was, she was, often on my desk while I worked. When it was time for bed, she was the first one curled up. In the morning, her face was frequently the first one I saw. Standing on my chest looking into my eyes. The silent message? It's time for breakfast. Recently when I was ill in bed, her place was on the pillow, next to my head. In the winter, when it was cool and the wood stove was slowing down, under the covers was a satisfactory location.

Taradactyl got along with everyone. People included. She would have turned 16 this December. Even at the end, sick as she was, when the veterinarian tried to open her mouth to look, she surprised her and gave her back a bloody thumb from the razor sharp claws. Feisty to the end. Life on her terms. When you look into the heavens tonight, you'll know my little angel is there. I know we will see each other again.

Taradactyl, you'll always be remembered and you will always live in our hearts for as long as we live. Goodbye and Godspeed my little one.