An old post with a sad update.

This column is about 11 years old:

Long ago, there was a girl who left for Afghanistan. While she worked at the university there, she met a cat, Maki, a large Afghan street cat who had been picked up so many times by the Nowzad animal shelter for getting his butt kicked by other Afghan street cats that the shelter finally did not return him to the street. They got tired of treating his wounds.

When Cara went to the shelter, Maki saw her from across a crowded room, marched square over and climbed up next to her. She felt that the cat had chosen her. She decided to choose him. 

When Cara and I were in New Orleans about six years ago, we stayed in an artist's home, and she had a portrait of her golden retriever painted in the manner of a religious icon. Cara thought it was hilarious.

When I came back, I contacted an artist that I know and commissioned a portrait of Mack for Cara's Christmas gift. 

                                              I'd found a portrait of the Emir of Caubal

and had Mack painted in the same manner. 

Ellen, being a gentle soul fell in love with the story of Maki, and to this day says that he is one of her top selling prints. A percentage of her Maki sales goes back to the Nowzad animal shelter.

It is a funny thing to think of Mack these days. He is actually a citizen of Great Britain now and is currently wintering in Tlibisi, Georgia...this after summering in Spain, which happened after a year in the UK with stops along the way in France and Switzerland.  He has learned to unzip tents in Italy, and sometimes the campers there left notes and gifts for him when they decamped. His picture hangs in the homes of people we will never know.

Ellen published a book of her work and I bought an autographed copy for each of the grandchildren. Much to my surprise, Mack was in it.

He's come a very long way from the war torn violence of Kabul's streets, hasn't he?

Today, January 27th. 2026, old Maki passed away in the arms of the girl who loved him, held to the window of the orangery so that he could look out at the beloved garden he'd spent so much time in. 17 years ago, he was born in the  streets of Kabul, Afghanistan. He died a British aristocat.