RIP Rufus

Rufus didn’t make it, and I’m incredibly sad. I’m not going to write about the experience because I don’t want to remember it. When I write things down, they tend to stick in my brain longer—they sear in. I want this to drift away. He was my first kitten and I immediately fell in love with him. I will tell you that we rescued Rufus six years ago and he was always sort of sickly. He had a chest rattle, an irregular heartbeat. We joked that he would die early of consumption, but he actually died early of cancer.

He was our backyard cat and I looked for him every day in one of his napping spots. I found him and held him in my arms, cradled him like a baby, which we both loved. When I didn’t take the time to look for him, he would always find me and stand by my legs until I picked him up. That’s really all we want—knowing that someone or something needs us, loves us, or just wants to be with us. I keep looking for him in the yard, like a crazy person. I miss my Rufus. That’s all I’m going to say, because I don’t want you catching my sadness. Please hug your pet, or your kids, or a friend for me.

 

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