As a child, we always had several cats at a time. Throughout all of the cats who came in and out of our home, I always had one favorite. Lucy.
A tuxedo with long, beautiful hair, a white chest, and white mittens on each paw. Her eyes were the brightest green, always standing out, especially in the dark. Her most defining feature by far was the tremendous (occasionally obnoxious) meow she bore.
Just by saying her name, or her rightfully earned nickname “Meow-Meow,” you could set her off into a fit of meows that I am almost sure the neighbors could hear.
We grew up together, and it was as though there was this unexplainable mutual understanding between the two of us, that each of us were special to the other.
I was the only one in the house who could hold her without getting shredded. She spent the most time in my bedroom whenever she decided to venture upstairs.
I did not take this trust from her for granted. I often sat with her, combed her hair, gave her trims when she was too matted, ensured she always had fresh water in the water dish she obsessed over in our kitchen, and did dozens of other Lucy-focused activities.
My afterschool routine always included saying hello to her, and giving her some pets, even if just for a moment. Her meow was the most perfect welcome home.
One year, I dressed as her for Halloween. My love for her was boundless.
As she aged, I aged right along with her. She was 1 and I was 4, then we were 5 and 8, 10 and 13, and 15 and 18. You get the point.
This measurement of time, of growing together, set me up for the biggest heartbreak of my life.
I got home towards the end of last month and could tell. Her eyes were weak, and her expression was telling. Her body was frail and thin. Her meow was gone.
If I could wish for any knowledge to be bestowed upon me, it would be knowing that there was a last time I was hearing that meow.
I laid on the kitchen floor beside her, and everything in me just knew this somber August night would be her last. When I woke the next morning, my heart would be shattered at the fact that my mind was correct.
Losing a pet is hard, but losing Lucy was like losing something more. For the first time, it felt like my childhood was over.
I will never forget the way she brushed up on my legs, how her feet slid across the floor while she drank water, all of her favorite spots to lounge, her spunky attitude towards my dogs, the way she sprawled across my torso in bed, and every other little thing I absolutely loved about her.
It’s been a month since her passing, and I have still not truly been able to absorb the reality of her absence.
I look back on my childhood, and so many of my core memories involve her. She was always there. Now I have to go home and know she will never be there again.
I will keep growing up, but I think I will always want to be 20, since my Lucy will be forever 17.