My cat died two days back. She lived a wonderful life, there’s no doubt about that, but the last few days she was ill. Very ill. All of a sudden, the house feels empty, and all I can do is to reach out for her picture stuck on the fridge with a magnet, and think about her, and wonder if I did enough to save her. Yes, I did everything that I knew of, but maybe there was more…

I still remember the time I had adopted her when I was five years old, and she has been my best friend since. She grew up before my eyes; she grew up along with me. She waged wars with garden lizards, squirrels, nasty Alsatians, lusty tomcats, difficult prey, pesky child-visitors, minor stomach ailments, and, on one occasion, a snake. For so many years, she fought her own battles and I fought mine. Always by each other’s side. Always nurturing each other, always healing each other. Always talking to each other (even while the world thought me crazy), always being there for each other. In the second week of March, she would have turned fourteen. She was a remarkable cat.

…writing is supposed to alleviate pain, isn’t it? Then why does this still hurt just as much?