After 19 joyful, love-filled years, it was time to say goodbye.
Alice, our family's tiny, feisty tabby, departed this mortal existence early on the morning of Saturday, Oct. 15, in the arms of her favorite human in the universe, my younger brother.
In the days surrounding this monumental loss, while my heart ached with a sorrow so deep I was physically debilitated, I found solitude in remembering nearly two decades of joy this petite creature and her outsize personality gave us. There was also relief that she'd no longer suffer as her tiny, tired body failed to contain her immense spirit, even as she visibly fought to stay with us in those final days.
Losing a pet is one of the most profound losses many of us have gone through or will experience in life, some of us time and time again. Yet even while knowing their existence here with us is far too brief, we continue to endlessly love and care for these unconditionally loyal companions.
As I grappled with Alice's departure, however, I unexpectedly found solace from several cat-related accounts on social media, where candid reflections about loss so accurately echoed my own. A pet's death feels like the most unfair, isolated blow from the universe, but at any given time, millions of us are facing this deep anguish. And I have one other time before.
In 2015, just days before Christmas, my partner of nearly 10 years, Will, and I held his 17-year-old cat, Maddie, in our laps one last time in the glow of the tree. Dear, sweet Maddie was actually responsible — via a story for this very publication — for bringing Will and I together. But to find them, I first had to find Alice.
Affectionately known by her nickname, Little, Alice was the cat that made me — and my family — adore cats more than any of us thought possible.
We found Alice at a rural post office in Tumtum, Washington, on Friday, Dec. 5, 2003. Erica, my sister, spotted the disheveled, rain-soaked kitten cowering under the blue letter-drop box, less than 30 feet from the highway. Knowing her chances for survival were immensely slim, we couldn't leave her.
Living in rural Stevens County, we'd had numerous cats before, but they were outdoor-only "barn cats." While we loved to incorporate them (when willing) into outside playtime, these aloof felines sadly never survived unforgiving country life for long. One day, they'd miss dinner, and we'd never see them again.
But Mom let us keep Alice inside, and safe. We played and laughed and loved and snuggled her and finally knew the deep bond and distinctly quirky personality each cat has. Alice hated other cats with a guttural, hiss-filled passion, and thus remained an only cat her entire life, even though we would have gladly adopted others. My brother Andrew, the youngest and last to leave home, was her inseparable and final guardian, even though we always considered her the family cat.
Amid the sorrow, losing Alice reminded me that our capacity to love an animal so fiercely is unbound. Though my heart was first captured by her, it grew to contain my love for Maddie, too, and then even bigger for Dellie, now the center of Will's and my home for the past six-and-a-half years.
One pet can never "replace" another. More simply, they teach us how to keep loving others in tribute to their legacy. Wherever her spirit now resides, I know Alice wants us all to keep loving other cats just as much as we loved — and still love — her.
She must be purring with pride to see that Andrew has since expanded his heart to hold in it two rambunctious rescue kittens, Freya and Grace, who are now tearing happily through his house with her old toys in their mouths and dozing in her soft beds. ♦