[Daniel]

Last summer, my husband and I buried Jasper, our tuxedo cat from the streets of chinatown, in Central Park during the dead of night under a tall leafy tree. We found him rolling around on his back in the middle of the sidewalk while on our third date: dirty, tail broken, smelly like you wouldn't believe. He was hardly a year old. We scooped him up and brought him home to the apartment I would move into a few weeks later- but that's another story.

Jasper had a way of calming you down when you were upset and would, without fail, amble up when I was meditiating and sit down in front on me, paw extended, lightly touching my hand. Oh. I thought. I'm on your level now.

During his first weeks with us, we learned to keep the piano lid closed so that he wouldn't walk over the keys at first light. Smart boy that he was, he would revert to shoving music off, sending it crashing to the floor (a squirt bottle solved that problem). Feed me! He was saying. Now!

Naughty and enlightened. Just how I like my men.

Fourteen years was much too short.