(Originally posted Aug. 11, 2011)
Silky, the Rishel Family cat, died last Tuesday morning. She was sixteen years old and was battling terminal cancer, but I don’t think she even knew she was sick until the last week or two.
She was my last surviving childhood pet. I’m sure I’ll have lots of other pets, but there won’t be any more that can occupy that kind of place in my life.


Silky was a sweet little cat who was loved by everyone. Before the last year, she was exceptionally healthy but she was always very small. Her size, combined with her life-long sense of curiosity and slightly submissive nature made her seem like a perpetual kitten. She was born a farm cat, but if my mother’s cousin hadn’t given her to my family, I doubt that dainty little Silky would have survived one year on the farm.
Silky’s original owner happened to be visiting a few months before Silky first became ill. I thought he wouldn’t remember an old barn cat that had only belonged to his family for five short weeks, but he remembered her very fondly. He told us that Silky was the daughter of Mountain Mist, his very favorite cat ever. Apparently, our little girl had come from a family of exceptional cats. I like to think that her half-feral relatives are still running around the forests of Paris, Ohio, enchanting all they meet.
So long, little friend. Thanks for all the great years.