It's September 11th, 2024. We put you to rest yesterday. A doctor came to our house so that you would feel safe. You had been isolating for the last few days after you had stopped eating. But we did get you to stay with us for a few minutes two nights prior and you curled between us and purred for a while like you had so many times before. We brought your litter and water up for the last night and you found a place curled under our bed in Carrie's basket among her clothes. We heard you purring a little to yourself that last morning as you contemplated your water dish.

You died in Carrie's arms around 3:45pm on September 10th. We both stroked your fur while you went. I held your body afterward. Seven years ago today you came back to us after leaping from our fourth floor balcony at our first apartment in Chicago 36 hours prior. You had a chipped tooth and a limp but you were otherwise okay. I was worried and a little numb and hopeful and keeping off grief as we wandered the alleys surrounding our house while calling your name. Jefferson was there too and asked some folks camped out to keep an eye out for you . You had slipped into the parking garage. A neighbor found you. You gave us seven more years.

It's September 12th and it's senseless and impossible and natural that you're gone. Meaning is only meaning because of the finality of an ending. Tuuli is still looking for you sometimes. Carrie and I catch a glimpse here and there of you. We were at hypnobirthing and were asked to visualize a kitchen that held great meaning. We both chose our family's — with you on the stool watching with interest as we prepare a meal. Tears are still coming; a little more often for Carrie than for me. I am slowly cleaning things that need cleaning — your litter and dish and extra belongings.

We did not opt for your ashes — we would spread them on the couch and carpet and sun-warmed kitchen floor. We did not think you'd especially care to be buried in the yard either. So scrubbing your catbox and gathering your things is me putting you to rest again. This letter is, too. We plan to keep some things out. The bee that Carrie made for you is currently on the shelf in the office. Chewoo #4 is too. Chewoo #3, hole licked in the back of it's body, is upstairs so that it can be hugged in your absence. Your laying mat remains next to me on my desk and the cattree behind me. I imagine you close by still & know that you are here.

It's September 13th and things get slowly easier. Ben found you — or you found him — in Champaign in the summer; I think June of 2011. He was on his way to meet us late after work at a bar and texted that he couldn't make it because he found a cat. You approached him and meowed and he picked you up and walked for a bit. Then you'd wriggle from his arms and be set down to investigate something or other and then meow to be picked up again. Ben said that this repeated until he brought you all of the way home to 106 Daniel.

There's a post on Facebook near that Halloween of pumpkins that Carrie and I carved. One of them is of you — and Carrie already notes that you are the best cat. You are the best cat. I think that you became mine because Ben is a little allergic. We tried to keep you sequestered in the upper floor of 106 Daniel because our apartment did not allow animals. You kept climbing over the fridge box and baby gates that we'd attempted to use to block the hall. You were always curious and motivated to explore. Carrie followed you as you systematically mapped our neighbor's apartment when our AC broke during a 100° summer week. I took you when I left for my next apartment that fall. You have been with me since.

It's September 16th. We picked up your fur, in a small glass bottle, and nose print from Heaven at Home. We have your last paw print in foam from they day that you left. We still haven't printed a wedding photo but we're probably going to frame a few of you, first. Carrie wants something small for her nightstand and we're thinking of a shadowbox for the rest. She changed her phone background to a picture of you — held by me in bed. She said it brings her a lot of joy.

We were putting up a chair rail in the nursery yesterday and we were wondering where you'd have been. The guest room mattress and box spring were leaning against the yoga room wall — you loved to climb. Drawers were out of the dresser in the nursery which would have presented an enticing target for exploration. We had a drop cloth on the ground to catch drips from the chair rail. You loved any new surface and it would have been perfectly in our way.

The bottle of fur looks more dull than I remember you, orange and bright while on the kitchen floor in the sun. And the whisker print doesn't feel overly familiar. Still, it will be nice to catch a glimpse of you from time to time. To see you again as I do now in my mind.

It's September 20th and we're settling back into life. Carrie has remarked a few times that it's weird how quickly we've returned to something that feels mostly normal. It is weird. I don't believe in sadness for its own sake but you were here for thirteen years and now you're not. It might have some to do with our little loud dog taking up space in our lives. It might have some to do with how busy we feel getting ready for our baby. It might be how grief works for folks who grieve but still have to wake and walk their dog and make coffee and work. We still notice your absence in the places you were most — curled between us at night and in the morning.

My mom and Caroline both sent cards and there are still others we'll want to tell and who will miss you. But I think that this finishes the first of the three things that I've wanted to write — to record what happened and how it felt and what it's meant. The second is to preserve some memories. The last will be to say thank you.

I went on facebook and in my email and searched for your name. You come up often. Facebook has a video where Carrie recorded some of the grunts you'd make in your sleep, as well as a video I took of you wearing (mostly not wearing) a birthday hat while I sing happy birthday to Carrie. It has a picture of you with Jefferson from when we three lived on Milwaukee in Chicago. It has a photo of you when you were young and we still sometimes called you Jean Luc. There are probably two hundred more — many taken by Hannah — on Rover that we'll want to sort and archive. That's my next project.

It's September 26th. We've had folks start on the kitchen and someone wallpaper the nursery and we're getting ready. We've had someone come by to clean the house every other week. She sent a card when she heard. Her name is Celeste and we like her a lot. In Urbana you kept the mice out of that 650sqft carriage house studio. Once when Carrie was there for a weekend she heard you crunching next to the bed. You were chewing the head off of a mouse. There were a bunch of droppings when I returned to finish moving out of that apartment after finding the place on Milwaukee.

You spent that month with Ben at that big house in Champaign. I think you escaped from there for a day or two but I never really heard that whole story. There was one other time that you caught a mouse but I can't remember where exactly. You loved to chase flies and would often eat them. For periods of time you'd regurgitate your food and then eat it again later. That was pretty gross but is just what some cats do one vet told us. You hated the vet; I think Family Friends knew you as the spicy one before we started giving you gabapentin. You figured out how to open doors at the condo building in Logan — hurling your small frame against the door to grab the lower handles. Like the velociraptors in Jurassic park.

You also discovered that we'd get out of bed to shoo you away from the snake plant when you chewed it in the morning, so we had to develop anti-cat spray to save the plants. You loved the walk-up apartment in Logan. It was on the third floor and among the trees. My phone background has been you, perched on the old brown sectional, observing squirrels just outside the window. Once we hosted the Hoaggs — we made toast and egg breakfast. Two of us, three of them, and you sitting on a chair at the head of the dining table.

We moved to Grand Rapids to buy a house and be closer to nature. We didn't have a screened porch on our house list but we happened into one. You loved it out there in the warm weather, laying across the small sofa. The bird bush is out there and you used to listen and chitter and watch. One time you were face-to-face with a raccoon out the back sliding door.

We got Tuuli about a year and a half ago as a puppy. She wanted to be friends so badly but she is energetic and loud and frenetic. I like to think that you enjoyed the relationship in your own way — asserting your space and chasing Tuuli back when she got too close. But it did mean that you spent less time with us in the kitchen and in the living room. Carrie feels bad about that sometimes. I do too, but it's also how growth and life and change work.

We're preparing for another change now. Carrie has joked that you heard we were going to irradiate you again and then you'd come home after twelve days to a yelling baby and a yelling dog and you thought it might be better to be done sooner rather than later. I don't think that that's impossible. You came to us out of nowhere, in your own time. You left that way, too. You arrived shortly after Carrie and I started dating. You kept me company when I lived alone, and you made us a family, first, when Carrie and I moved in together. You were with me during my descent into and recovery from madness. You were with us as we figured out living in Chicago, and with us while we found a community in Grand Rapids.

More than my specific memories I'm grateful for all of the little moments that we spent together. Finding you sleeping on a dining chair I was trying to pull out, sitting in a new box we'd just emptied, sleeping on every new material that made its way to the floor. Seeing you make cat eyes from across the room, hearing you chirp inquisitively when we got home, hearing you meow for dinner. Touching your soft fur, stroking your chin or rubbing your belly. Feeling your small body pressed against me, purring, on the couch or in bed. Throwing the bee, scratching behind the pillow to see you jump from seemingly nowhere. Finding the bath towel pulled from its rack into a small nest by the sink. Hearing you yowl downstairs after we'd gotten in bed as you prepared to bring the pink squirrel up to sleep.

I'm most grateful that we had thirteen years of small moments. Thank you for choosing to spend your life with us. I know that it was a good one. I'm sorry, for myself, that it's over.

The last thing we did, after you were gone but before we placed you in the basket, was hug. Our original family: Carrie and I and your small orange round head and brightly furred body snuggled between us. I'm so grateful.

Thank you. I love you. Goodbye.

Truman

October 3rd, 2024