Anubis, god of the dead, was perhaps the single least appropriate name ever given to a kitten. Nonetheless, Nubi (as he was known), bore it with incredible good grace, and compensated with an unmitigated – and infectious – exuberance in life. He was the perfect counterpoint to his older, and considerably more circumspect, adopted siblings. Where they were quiet and contemplative, he was vocal and experimental. Where they were shy and retiring in the face of the new, he was incredibly extroverted and social. And, also, where they long ago learned that the kitchen was a dangerous place, full of quickly moving feet, occasional hot liquids, and frequently loud noises, he ignored it all to be in the center of my cooking universe.

Inevitably, Nubi would find himself – mysteriously – underfoot in the midst of some mad dash to bring a meal together. His favorite assistance to the cook was to wait until the feet had stopped, then he would undertake a perfect, textbook flanking action before rubbing up against and then biting the cook’s toes. Repeatedly. Despite the flailing of arms and promises of pain and agony. Only when sprinkled with water would Nubi run from the kitchen, stop short under the dining room table, undertake a quick bath, and then return committed to his mission once again.

Many meals happened with Nubi at the center, which means of course that a great deal of my joy in the kitchen came from interactions with his good natured self and his insistence that whatever I was doing wasn’t nearly as important or fun as what he was doing. That, and I think he just enjoyed watching me attempt to steer my way around him while whisking egg whites, sauteing garlic, and sipping wine.

Nubi died this morning of a horrible, untreatable disease called feline infectious peritonitis (FIP). It was quick; he went from healthy to not in a short, short time. But, at only a year and half old, he was much too young to die the way he did; and I too close to handle it with anything other than grief and anger.

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