Content Warnings: grief, loss of pet
I look at the pieces of spam I used to feed you instead of throwing out, and my heart squeezes in my chest in hopes that you’re well and alive. I loved (love) you a lot, even when you ruined our mattresses and our couches, even when you scratched me, especially when you scratched me (because I was lucky enough to have a cat that scratched me!). You let me hold you the longest, and you would sleep under my feet and strut on my chest when you didn’t bother going around my body. You were scared of loofas, and you loved wet canned food. I’d look for you when I came home, and I’d hope it would be the day you’d be less nonchalant about seeing me, but it never was. I loved you despite you being every trait an orange cat would be—aggravating, non affectionate and crazy—and I still love you, as an owner loves her first cat. I hoped they’d never actually do anything, and they never did until I came back home and found you gone with the cage that had been by the door for days. I’m sorry for not trying hard enough. I hope you know I search for you in every orange cat I see.
