Even as a kitten, Dakota was salty.

This may have been related to a series of indignancies suffered early on. Her first few months of life were spent under the name “Bernice” in an apartment in which the animal-to-human ratio was somewhere around 15:1. When she was “rescued” by my best friend on my 20th birthday, she moved into an unairconditioned slum that required her to sit beneath a leaking bathroom faucet to stay cool. When she took the opportunity to do a little uncharacteristic exploring via an accidentally-open window, she was bitten by a Boston sewer rat and needed a cone. Also, I made her wear a bell.

Regardless, whether borne or bred into such a demeanor, Miss Dakota was best known for being devastatingly unimpressed.

She despised cars, airplanes, America, Canada, living in the city, living in the country, large gatherings of people, small gatherings of people, and other animals. She shunned kitty treats, wet food, milk, laser beams, and toys soon after kittenhood. She never once wasted her time chasing a mouse.

As an added curse, she was a very pretty, fluffy cat. If, say, you were to snuggle her up like a pillow and bury your face in her white fur – so gauche – you would have the uncanny sensation of being engulfed in satiny cotton candy. Because of that, and because it was almost impossible to avoid EVERYONE, she allowed an appropriate amount of fawning and petting from my best friend, my dad, and me. When she had received an acceptable amount of love, she would bite and walk away.

She completely ignored my children. Her only interaction with my husband would be to randomly hiss. She did not appreciate nor answer to my son’s nickname for her, MissKota.

She preferred to sleep on the smooshiest blankets available. Despite being barely a foot long, she was able to completely annex a king-size bed. Of course, she snored.

Her throne was the largest window. Between naps in the sunlight, she would sit on her hind legs and survey her kingdom through long blinks and presumed eyerolls.

Miss Dakota died in her bed at the age of 19. In her next life she will lounge away her days in her pied-a-terre, ensconced in a down comforter, binoculars in one hand, a bourbon sour in the other. In this life, though, Dakota was a very good cat.