She was a calico cat, a big girl with an open expression and an open nature, and somebody, somewhere had named her Peaches.  It seemed an unsuitably frivolous name for a remarkably centered, solid little animal.  Maybe that was why she was rarely called Peaches.  Instead, she was Peach or Peachie or the Girrrl or, in the third person, the Peach, a singular creation, apart from other, lesser cats.
 
            Certainly she was more of a people cat than a cat cat.  She approached us as fellow beings, openly and curiously, welcoming any interaction we might provide, and, in addition to the mundane meows of other cats, she had a repertoire of unfailingly cheerful chirps and trills for the occasion.  A "Hello, Peach" would be met with a happy little "brr-up" that seemed to have definite conversational intent.  In return, I don't think she ever met unkindness, or maybe she simply didn't inspire it.  She certainly never learned to cower, or to hide or to skulk. 
 
            The world was her friend, and her oyster. Even an expedition down the hallway had its pleasures as she checked out the various doors, investigated the smells and the sounds, greeted anyone fortunate enough to step outside and into her path, this stocky, low-slung and blessedly low-strung animal, planted solidly on her big white paws that almost had something of the lynx in them and waving an elegant, fern-like tail that was always erect, like a personal banner.
 
            She had a kind and open heart, but apparently it wasn't strong.  The Peach, so seemingly robust, turned out to have a congenital weakness and in the space of a few days, at only five years old, she was gone, suddenly and heartbreakingly for those who knew her, who had the unalloyed pleasure of knowing her.  She was like one of those people you may know, maybe they're close to you, maybe they're only acquaintances, but any contact with them improves your day and is to be looked forward to.  I'll miss her.  We all will.