As we stood around the sunlit grave close to Bill's oak tree, Tux spontaneously wandered over, explored around the hole, and, prompted by who knows what, braced himself on the edge and leaned in. His head reached down to Saki's - the only part exposed from her little white shroud, and he sniffed her in a farewell kiss. Then he withdrew to the oak tree and lay down in the grass.
Saki arrived on Bill’s birthday, December 10, 2000. Somewhat traumatized by the party and houseful of people, that first night. A little bundle of white fluff edged with chocolate points. Startling blue eyes. Our perfect little Siamese.
When I left on my round-the-world trip to visit family early in 2001, Saki was in the prime of her wildness, Flying around the house, up curtains, across dressers, leaving a trail of chaos in her wake. But she was great comfort to Bill when his sister passed away as he stood by her bedside – and I was half a world away. 
Saki soon had a little brother, a cheeky tuxedo kitty who survived her witchery. When Tux could defend himself, they became fast friends, inseparable, intuitively connected. These two irascible felines brought much love and laughter to our home. Tux the sociable greeter, Saki the velvet-soft lover. When Bill passed away just two years ago, Saki took it upon herself to cuddle up with me every night, bringing sweet comfort that filled a void in my broken heart.
I have to admit, she was my favorite little girl. Hard to imagine my sweet little soft, furry girl, so full of love and impudence, has gone. I will miss her running wildly through the house, lapping fresh running water from the kitchen faucet, scampering high into a tree stirred by a sudden gust of wind, and nudging my face to kiss me goodnight with a gentle mew. The days and nights have lost a tender magic.
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