She didn’t ring the bell; she just stood there at the edge of the porch, her gaze meeting mine through the glass of the living room window. The silence seemed deliberate, a prelude to the inevitable. Death was shorter than I imagined, but with a kind, gentle smile. She carried with her a small black leather bag of endings come too soon. He didn’t even acknowledge her as she knelt near him, her presence jarring, an unwelcome intrusion into the familiar warmth of our living room – a space he long made our home. Grief tightened its grip on my heart as I realized the immediacy of what loomed.

We had spent his final day doing everything he wanted. 5:00 am would have otherwise seen me irritated had it not been for his cheerful chirps and beautiful purring face. Breakfast was a buffet of tuna, salmon, and chicken breast. Things normally given as special treats were heaped into small mounds. We trekked outdoors, side by side, through lands of previously forbidden exploration. It hadn’t struck me then, but this was our final sunrise. Springtime, though cold and crisp, provided many interesting things to investigate. By the afternoon, he was tired and ready for cuddles. The last photo in my camera roll is of him, snuggled down warmly into my lap.

It was the last gift that I could give him, to hold him in my arms as he crossed while I could not. I couldn’t bear the thought of him dying in any other way. He fought against the drugs, he fought to stay there in my arms. I felt his last breath, the last beat of his little heart, as he left this place. I kissed his forehead and whispered, “I love you, forever. I release you, Nico. Don’t linger, please. Go now.” Placing his lifeless body into the basket was a bizarre experience, a symbolic echo of a deeper loss not yet understood. It felt akin to watching someone eviscerate their own heart, tending to the raw, exposed chambers with a meticulous care, before placing the offering into a neat basket before them – a final, unbearable act of surrender. It still feels like I’m watching in third person, as if living a bad dream.

These past nights have all bled together, a wash of tears and fragmented dreams. Even sleep offers no lasting comfort. As the edges of the dream begin to fray, I awake to reality – a choked sob escapes before I can catch it. “Please, not yet.” Let me fall back asleep before… it’s as if the recording has skipped and something was missed. I’m suddenly aware of the wetness against my cheek – a pillow soaked with tears.

I’m thrust into the new day without him. A new life that began with his death, a life now haunted by his absence. A life where what day it is carries no consequence. I’ll wallow here for however long, unkempt, unshowered, and inconsolable. But a new anxiety rises, a silent demand to return, to feign normalcy. The fear of losing everything – my job, my stability – pressed down, amplified by the unspoken judgment: ‘It was just a cat.’ How do I now answer ‘How are you?’ How do I explain grief layered upon exhaustion and the lingering pain of letting go when I desperately wanted to hold on? How do I confront this new dread of facing their pity, their judgement? This is a place I never wanted to reach, but now can not escape.

Yes, I’m crying for my cat. What being ever sensed my feelings and offered comfort without the need for words? What person ever showed me so much unconditional love?

What was once home – a space filled with his warmth, woven into every activity and corner of the house – is now just an empty shell of walls. He was my home. His space, his presence, hasn’t disappeared. It lingers. It’s now a void, a stillness ringing with what was.