While we're on the subject, the coincidence is crippling...

Yet again, too much death...
But a word or two is in order...
So, without further ado...
A Eulogy for the Devil Cat

On October 9th, 2006, the much maligned and feared Ya-Ya Ba, short-haired mutt cat bred of questionable and no-doubt inbred Jaxanke stock, and native to Missirah, dot, dot, dot, Tambacounda, dot, dot, dot, Senegal, dot, dot, dot, West Africa, had a terrible run in with an automobile at the intersection of MLK and NE Stanton in the water-logged and too-hip-for its own good town of Portland, Oregon. She is survived by a not particularly smart or affectionate son, Higgins Ba, named after the arch nemesis and occasional gay lover of Thomas Magnum, P.I. extraordinaire.
Ya-Ya was not friendly in any way, shape or form, and she was generally feared by most visitors to her home, be it animal, human, or child. She showed up in our compound so many thousands of miles and light years away, dangling upside down by her tail, gripped in the hand of a child who wanted to know if we wanted her, as they had, they claimed, just rescued her from the jaws of a curious, hungry and/or wild dog. Knowing what I know now, I wouldn’t be surprised to find that they had just gotten tired of torturing her for kicks.
We took the near-fetal cat in and fed her powdered milk (VITA-LAIT!) from a dropper until she was old enough to eat left over ceeb u jenn and maffay. She then learned to catch and eat her own food, most notably 7"lizards and grasshoppers. She tried repeatedly to devour mice and gekkos but they inevitably ended up in a chewed and half-digested mess on the floor.
A relationship of trust and savagery developed between her and her new human parents. She played rough, like a pit bull, and as a child flew happily (was thrown) through the air and bounced off of mosquito nets at night until it was realized that she was not, absolutely NOT going to sleep the night through trapped in the net with her parents.
Her taste for blood progressed from grasshoppers and lizards to humans and she took to terrorizing Senegalese children and adults alike, not quite a difficult feat for an animal, insect, or frog. We took great delight in witnessing the hell one single cat can play on a meeting of teenaged girls (they run, scream, and abandon their flip-flops while making tracks for distant lands).
After much thought, her parents decided that she was, strangely, too domesticated to be left in the village after they returned to America. So, she was packed into a cat carrier, driven on an 8 hour trip across the country in a beat up and barely alive Peugeot, given a rabies inoculation, issued a Visa for America (much to the disgust of any Senegalese person who found out after we told them we couldn’t take them back with us... "You’ll take a CAT, but not ME?! You white people are damaged!")
After a small hold over in Dakar at our American host parent’s house (mansion) (Hey Pat and Oliver! We miss you!), she was heavily drugged and set off on a 15 hour flight to America. She was understandably confused and terrified, and 10 seconds after the plane left the ground in Dakar International, she shat her box. Life isn’t worth living until you’ve had to clean a cat and a cat box of shit at 30,000 feet in one of those airplane bathrooms. It was discovered, upon removing Ya-Ya from her box in order to clean it that when drugged, cats will not, CAN not, land on their feet when dropped. Make a note of that.
After one more ass-vacuation and too many hours to count she arrived in America and began her adventure as a spoiled cat. We found that shortly before leaving the village the cheap whore had been knocked up. She gave birth on a couch in Los Angeles to 3 babies before having her tubes tied to prevent any further ‘incidents.’
It was immediately apparent that she did not get along with any humans other than her ‘parents’ (we suspect she hated white people) or any other animals except for raccoons and her children (she did appear to make friends with a baby donkey in the village, but nothing came of it). But as with any love she gave, whether it was to her parents or her children, it was rife with scars, blood, and swearing. She never quite learned that baby cats could not play like full grown cats and she had to be restrained occasionally. But for the most part, she was a great and caring mother.
The sturdiest and most bastard-like child, Higgins, was chosen to accompany her to her new home in Portland, Oregon as it was presumed he was the only one who could handle her vicious playing techniques. It proved to be the correct choice and in time, as he grew and expanded, became much more adept and kicking ass than she was.
She enjoyed her new life in the Pac NorWest and had a fine time wandering the neighborhood and hanging out with the raccoons that deposit copious amounts of shit on our roof.
Sadly, but predictably considering the traffic on her street and her inability to understand the weight and velocity of automobiles, she was taken down by a hysterical woman who ended up screaming on her parent’s porch at 5PM on an already doomed and ruined Monday evening.
She was rushed to one vet, then to another that was in a position to deal with emergencies, and upon hearing the prognosis (burst bladder, never walk again, irreparable spinal damage) it was decided that it would be the best, as painful as it was, to so goodbye. She was administered a massive dose of anesthetic, softly scratched about the head and shoulder area, and told she was loved until the darkness descended.
To all who feared her, it is now safe to visit us again. For those who loved her, thank you. For those of you who know from experience (rub nostalgically those raised scars, all white and puckered), there is now a void on the world where she once terrorized, and, rhetorically speaking, of course, we all know that the only thing that could serve as an understudy to her life, a replacement if you will, would be a pissed off and rabid wolverine.
We miss you, Ya-Ya, and will never forget the love, the hell, and the roughness of your tongue on a forehead at 3 AM. You are one of a kind, and the tears burned hard and bright. Take care, and one day we will be together again, if you buy into that kind of feel good bullshit.
Memories never die. Scars last forever.
Bismilahi.