Mirimanee (miri for short) left us on Saturday night, 11 May, 2002.  
She was short haired Heinz 57 cat.  She was nearly 14 years old.  
She was coal black, with white at her neck and on her belly.  She 
had a very sweet disposition.  Rarely hissed, purred constantly, 
talked a little.  She would always watch for us to come home, and 
I found myself looking for that little flower face of hers in the window.  

She'd also meet us at the door, making sure we were ok, then 
demanded to be petted and admired before rushing off to demand 
fresh water or food.

When my husband would leave for his morning work, and I was 
still asleep, she would curl up on his side of the bed, within the 
crook of my arm. She would stay until the alarm went off, when 
she knew her breakfast would soon be ready. She was my little 
shadow, following me all over the house.  She would sleep on the 
computer desk if I were working there, or on the sofa next to me 
while reading or watching tv. 

If she felt she weren't getting enough attention, she would walk right 
onto my lap and demand to be petted and admired and loved. She 
was very special.

Before she was diagnosed with diabetes, she loved such foods as 
french fries (pom frits), pop tarts, hash browns, corn, popcorn, 
fresh bread, chicken, egg nog, and milk.  It was very difficult for 
her to give up those treats after the diabetes was diagnosed.

When she required daily shots, she learned that "assume the position" 
meant for her to get on the curio cabinet for her shot.  She would hop 
up there and lay down, waiting patiently for the shot to be given.

Miri developed either a brain tumor or infection, as her final illness gave 
her the equivalent of grand mal seizures. She had many of them, and 
only a few moments where she would be lucid enough to churr at me 
or my husband.  Given the fact that she had a similar seizure just the 
week before, the vet was very up front in admitting that a cure would 
be difficult at best; and she'd never enjoy the same quality of life she 
had up until this time.

She died in my arms that night.  I held her close, and she never fought 
or cried against the needle.  Her little body stopped jerking as the 
medicine started through her veins, and she looked peaceful.  It only 
took a few moments for her to pass on.  It has crushed me, and 
although we have two other fur babies that rely on us and love us, 
I will never forget the little bundle of joy I called "Miri"