He was just four years old.
There were no warnings, no signs of illness. The night before, he was his quintessential Seth-self: playful, purring, and full of life. He curled up for a nap and, in a moment that will forever haunt us, let out a small, sad cry and was gone. We can only find solace in the belief that it was a hidden heart condition, a flaw in an otherwise perfect creature, and that he felt no pain or fear. He simply went to sleep.
We hadn’t even had him a full year.
In a home that was already full, some might have wondered why we chose to bring another cat in. But Seth didn’t feel like a choice; he felt like fate. At the shelter, he instantly drew us in. There was a wisdom in his eyes that belied his age, and a gentle strength in his presence. And then there was his ear—that wonderfully imperfect cauliflower ear. We knew. We knew that his age and that little badge of honor made his chances of adoption slimmer. How could we leave him? His imperfections made him perfect to us.
We brought him home, and he bloomed. He wasn’t just a cat who lived in our house; he was a piece of our family’s soul. He had a capacity for love that was staggering. Seth didn’t just accept cuddles; he initiated them. He was a world-class hugger, burrowing his head into the crook of an arm or a neck and pouring his entire being into that single moment of connection.
And we will never, ever forget his unique and endearing habit: the "bite and pull." It was his signature move. When he was seeking attention, or feeling particularly playful, he would ever-so-gently place his teeth on your skin and give a tiny, tentative pull. It was never hard, never painful. It was his question: "Are you here with me? Do you love me right now?" The answer was always, always yes.
His time with us was cruelly short, but I have to believe it was long enough for him to know. He knew what it was to have a home that was truly his. He knew the safety of a warm lap, the joy of a filled food bowl, the comfort of a soft bed. He knew he was cherished not in spite of his cauliflower ear, but because of the story it told. He was ours, and we were his.
The pain of his absence is a raw, open wound. The house feels different. The world feels different. We are left with the haunting "what ifs" and the agonizing silence where his purr should be.
But we are also left with the immense gift of having loved him at all.
We didn't get years, but we got his years—the ones that mattered most. We got to be the family that spoiled him, that learned his quirks, that received his glorious hugs. We were the last chapter of his story, and I am endlessly grateful that it was a chapter filled with nothing but love, safety, and devotion.
Seth, my sweet boy. You were the best of boys. Thank you for choosing us. Thank you for every head bump, every purr, every gentle "bite and pull." You carved a place in our hearts that will remain yours forever. We thought we were saving you, but really, you were saving a place for yourself in our souls.
Rest easy, our loving boy. Your hug is forever imprinted on our hearts.
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