I miss Mickey.

It’s funny how a little ball of fluff can work her way into a person’s heart. Especially a special one like Mickey.

She was such a beautiful animal. Her long, silky, silver fur was so soft. Her tail, so exquisitely long, was always held so regally high. Her amber eyes were so sincere. But she was so much more than mere beauty. She was a true friend.

Never have I known an animal so devoted to a person. Mickey lived her life to love me. When I got home from work, she greeted me, throwing her body against my leg and rubbing against me as she looked lovingly into my eyes. When I sat down, she would leap into my arms and kneed my chest and arm until she drooled with pleasure. Then, when she tired of that, she curled gently into a ball and fell asleep in my lap where she would stay as long as I let her.

At night, she decided when it was time for me to go to bed, coming into the living room to squeek her sweet little meow at me. “I’m coming, Mickey” I’d say, as our eyes met, and she would start toward my room, prancing ahead of me down the hall. Once we got there, she jumped onto my bed and waited for me while I completed my nightly ritual. And then, as I crawled under the sheets, she stood, waiting patiently until I got comfortable. When she knew I was ready, she got on my pillow, plopped herself down, curled up next to me, and nuzzled her head into the palm of my hand where she would sleep all night.

I think the hardest part of losing her was how fast it was. On May 1, I didn’t even know anything was wrong. By May 5, we had been to the vet several times, because she couldn’t keep food down. On May 7, I took her to the emergency vet hoping they could help her. The last time I saw her, the vet had her in her arms, kissed her forehead and took her out of the room. On May 9, Mother’s Day, Mickey died of lymphoma. Alone with strangers.

It tears my heart up knowing she had to spend her last days wondering why I wasn’t there. In 10 years, she had only left the house once, and it had terrified her. To think that she was scared and alone in her last days breaks my heart in ways I can’t begin to describe. I hope she knew how much I loved her as she slipped away. I hope she didn’t feel abandoned. If I had known there was no way to save her, I would have never put her through that. I would have held her in the end. She would have had no doubt of my love.

I adored that little fluff ball. I miss her eyes looking lovingly into mine. I miss her smell. I miss her touch. I walk into my room and, for a moment, I expect her to be there. It breaks my heart when I suddenly remember she’s gone. I can’t lie down at night without crying, knowing I’ll never have that little head nuzzled in my hand again. The bed is so empty without her.

Some would think I’m silly for being so torn up over the death of a cat, but she was so much more than that to me. We adored one another. She was like a child to me.

I love you, MIckey.

Mickey McSqeek

April 1, 2000 - May 9, 2010