I lived with you for fourteen years. Not a kink in your tail, lover-boy, you could drive a woman crazy — gentle and brutal, sneaky and snuggling, affectionate prowler slinking through my house. Your padding on piano keys yielded post-modern avant-garde. Curled together in your basket, you and sister Chui made a two-headed swirl of magnificent fur: magnificat. Or, you’d let her prospect for the best spots, push her out to sit and sun yourself — you big-toothed, blue-eyed copycat. Once dog and child arrived you banished yourself to basement, claimed the furnace as your lair. Poised on my bedroom bureau you’d stretch yourself against my chest, purr for a place on my shoulder. Or, playing on the bed, you’d swat at the halo of my hands arcing above your head. Cat of large lung capacity, you’d yowl during daylight STOP WHATEVER YOU’RE DOING AND PAT ME! and in my ear at night, pillow-walk behind my head and pull my hair. Nights, you’d crawl with me between the covers, drape yourself upon my shoulder, dig your fang into my cheek. Mornings, I’d be hurting nicely. No matter how weak you became, fading, you kept on leaping to, from heights, topped the refrigerator in a single spring. I wish I could see you one more time, airborne at a moment’s notice, lion-like grace. Thai-boy, Thai-boy, I miss sleeping with you, how you’d snuggle against my skin, the curve of your fur a carpet for my dreams.
— by Lisa Sarasohn (based on conversation with Judith Glixon)