After almost 16 years of warmth and love my cat Moosh passed away yesterday.

I thought that knowing he would no longer be in pain, or that he had a long life would make the final moment easier. It didn’t.

He was one of the first things I did when I moved out of home. Always a cat lover I wasn’t able to have one at home due to allergic family members. He moved six times with me, put up with two human babies (do they ever stop crying??) and even weathered a new kitten three months ago.

The new kitten was magic for him. Ok, he hissed, and batted at her for a couple of weeks, but the youth she brought into the house made him healthier. He ate more and wasn’t so skinny, he moved more (if only to get away from her pouncing) and was brighter and happier than he’d been in a long time. I even caught him touching noses with her. And for a serial bachelor it was uber cute.

It’s funny how different things are when you actually experience them. We talked about not bringing him home from the Vets as it would be too distressing for the 6 and 4 year old. However, standing there looking at his now peaceful face I couldn’t fathom not bringing him home, I had to bury him under the Locut tree.

And in the end it was really good for the kids. Flowers were picked, tears were shed, they were allowed to pat him one more time if they wished. The 4 year old asked if she could feed him when he woke up, so there was a discussion on how he wont need to eat anymore. The 6 year old was concerned about the towel we wrapped him in. And today they are well adjusted while I fall apart quietly.

So a piece of my heart is missing, a strange ache reserved for the loss of a furry family member.