A month ago, very early on Easter Sunday, we lost our favorite non-human.
I’m still processing; still asking hard questions and coming up empty. I’m still at a loss for words that will do it and him justice — they just don’t exist.
I got Kieran when he was six weeks old, with bright eyes, rough kitten fur and a fat belly. I was 18 and living in my first off-campus apartment, and he was one of my first significant steps toward independence: my first non-family pet.
Yet as much as he was mine, becoming a family together with Eric was effortless, and he became just as much Eric’s. Seeing how they loved each other has made the time of losing harder and easier all at once. It’s difficult for us to watch each other grieve, and a comfort to know someone else feels exactly the same. The whole Murray clan took a very hard hit with this news. All of us just adored him.
Kieran was suffering silently from heart disease, probably for a few years, and we had no idea. He was always content, never showing signs of discomfort until he went into sudden congestive heart failure the night before Easter. By 3 a.m. we had said goodbye. He was only seven.
If you haven’t owned a really, truly fabulous cat, you can’t know the presence they are… Kieran was more than a pet.
(He slept here most nights.)
(He adored a good belly rub.)
(With Cody, whose life was also cut far too short by heart disease.)
(He put up with anything.)
(Even the maintenance guy loved him.)
Oh, it hurts. It hurts to remember, and it hurts to imagine forgetting.