Thomas, I brought you home today. I must say, you look different. (Humor is the best medicine, right?)
But I remember you.
I was upstairs editing late when Michael called my name in that voice. You know, the one that makes everything in your chest fall into your gut. You had collapsed and gone into respiratory distress. The vet put you in an oxygen tank and gave you pain meds to make you comfortable. Your heart had broken.
Our hearts broke too. But I remember you.
I remember you as a kitten, born to a pregnant cat we inherited with our first house. Unexpected. A surprise that would lead to so many years of joy.
I remember you helping us garden. We would have gotten twice as much done without you, but it would have been half as fun.
I remember you walking us to the barn and back every time we took care of the horses knowing we couldn’t make it on our own. You were a great hunter. You could protect us from anything.
I remember how upset you were when we made you an indoor only cat because of the coyotes. It took many months and a very large outdoor enclosure to convince you we were old and wise enough to go to the barn on our own.
You had a grand life and you left it quickly. Those are good things for you. This is not for you. This is for those of us who will always remember you.