This is the second obituary I've had to write for the same cat.

About five years ago, when we were living in LA (lower Alabama, otherwise know as hell on earth) my 11 year-old-cat snuck out the front door while we were bringing in the groceries.

She had never been outside before, not since the day she was brought to me as a kitten. Having just had a cat poisoned by a careless neighbor and the pool of antifreeze he'd left on the driveway, I swore I was never going to have an outside cat again.

Tasha had other ideas. For weeks, I hunted for her. It was November, as wet and cold and blustery as only November can be, even in LA. I crawled under bushes. I chased rats out of the canebreaks. I called her name until I was hoarse and too tired to cry.

This was that cat that slept in my arms every night and she was outside and on her own. I even slept by the front door for a week -- in November-- with the front door propped open so she could sneak back in if she wanted.

She never did. Just after Christmas, six weeks later, I gave up and wrote her obituary for my column in the paper, thanking her for all the good times we'd had.

A few days later, coming home in the dark, a rabbit, ghostly gray and tan in the night, shot in front of my car as I pulled into the driveway. Seconds later, a tiny tiger raced after it.

"THAT'S MY CAT!" I roared. I hurtled down the driveway, which dropped down a hill behind our house. Jumping from the car I dove into the massive overgrowth of cane, azaleas, kudzu and bracken, just in time to see my little tabby disappear.

I flopped down and called her name. Tasha never came when I called -- she was a cat, afer all -- but if I scratched something, like the comforter, or my jeans, she would always come running. it worked this time, too. I carried her, so skinny her bones seemed to rattle as we walked, into the house for a grand welcome home celebration.

Other than being so skinny, the vet pronounced her in good health and she didn't waste anytime putting the weight back on, although she was never a fat cat. She had been a picky eater before, but a few weeks of starvation improves everyone's appetite and she would now eat anything we put down in front of her.

She changed a little after that; not just her appettite, but her personality. Tasha was never kittenish playful, even when she was a kitten, and she was always aloof with other family members. I was Mom and Unending Food Source, so she would sit beside me on the bed.

After her wilderness ordeal, I would find her curled up with any human family member who would sit still long enough. Instead of pulling her usual disappearing act when strangers came over, she would wander out to greet them.

My oldest said she'd really come back from the Pet Semetary and was possessed by Satan. She would sit back on her haunches and raise her front paws in the air, batting in slow motion at unseen things , and the boys laughed and said she was worshipping the devil.

Tasha was a comfort cat; she always seemed to know when I was blue and would come sit in my lap. She would even pet me on occasion, just pressing her paw to my cheek or nose.

Every day, when I got home from work, she would be sitting on the dining room table, looking out the window and waiting for me. I could see her silhouette against the sheers as she sat, Egyptian-style, upright and ears pointed forward.

She had cancer. We knew the tumor was there and we knew there was nothing to do about it. She never reacted well to anaesthesia (we almost lost her when she was spayed) and she was, after all, almost 16 yrs old. As long as she showed no signs of pain or distress, we let things go on. Because she was still wolfing down her food and taking her 6-foot leaping catfits around the living room, and curling up and purring in my lap while I played on the computer at night, I felt she wasn't in pain.

But when I got home Thursday night, the signs were there. She hadn't eaten that day. She was breathing rapidly and she was staring straight ahead.

And she wasn't sitting on the dining room table, watching for me.

I warned the boys that I was going to have to take her to the vet in the morning and have her put to sleep -- it isn't being kind or responsible to let her suffer. I just hated the thought of our life together ending in a cold lab room.

She spared me that choice. I found her this morning, curled up beside her food bowl, eyes closed as if she were asleep. How can you be so happy and so sad at the same time? I was happy that she never really suffered. I am happy she died in the home she loved. But oh, oh, oh my heart is breaking ...

And she isn't there to curl up in my lap to make me feel better.