And so this week’s moment of happiness despite the news.
Hooboy.
So last week, I didn’t post. I’d spent all day at the emergency vet clinic with my cat, Cleocatra (Cleo), who was suddenly very, very ill. She was her normal self on Monday, but when I got up on Tuesday, she was flat out on the floor.
Cleo had Feline Leukemia. I didn’t know this on the day I adopted her, when she was just 12 weeks old. The humane society I adopted her from didn’t test their cats – and I didn’t know that. When I brought her in for her first vet appointment a few weeks later, I found out. My vet gently suggested I return her, but by then, we were bonded, and there was just no way.
Feline Leukemia causes a weakened immune system. The average lifespan after diagnosis is 2 years. Cleo turned 2 years old in April.
What followed was a week from hell, which culminated in a visit to my vet. Cleo’s body was shutting down. She was actually in death throes on the table, my arms circled around her, as the vet gave her the injection.
To say I’m devastated is an understatement. Cleo and Oliver, who I dubbed The Orange Terror Twins From Different Mothers, helped me so much through the last two years. Oliver was adopted shortly before Michael’s death, Cleo shortly after.
This isn’t, as they say, my first rodeo. On the top shelf of my closet, there are several versions of urns, and behind my desk, on a bookshelf, there are urns for the three pets who died in 2024 and 2025, two before Michael, one after.
The cats are:
Jake
Einstein
Cornelius (Corny)
Muse
Edgar Allen Paw
The dogs are:
Cocoa
Blossom
Penny
Donnie
Ursula
And of course, in my living room, on my piano, is the urn that holds Michael.
When I was born and brought home from the hospital, there was a dog named Cindy. When I was eight years old, a cat entered my life, named Spooky. There has always been at least one animal under my roof and in my family. I put myself through college by working at a local humane society (the one I adopted Cleo from). My first published articles were in the official magazine of the Humane Society of the United States, and in their magazine for kids, called KIND (Kindness In Nature’s Defense).
Out to dinner one night during a college break, my father looked at me and said, “I hope a day comes when you love people as much as you love animals.” I remember my jaw dropped. To me, there was no difference in the amount of love I extended to people and animals. There was no “loving more”. There was only love.
Since Michael was struck by the passenger van on January 17, 2024, it seems like my life has been shrouded in loss. In death. In February 2024, Edgar Allen Paw, then 14 years old, died. In April 2024, one day after her 21st birthday, Muse died. Michael died in June 2024. In August 2025, my grandcat Alfadore died. In September 2025, my dog Ursula, approximately 11 years old, went blind overnight, and then died. The day before Thanksgiving, 2025, my great friend Leslie died on the operating table.
And now…Cleo. Only 2 years old.
It is also an understatement to say that I am sick of death. That I am overwhelmed with grief. And that I am starting to watch everyone, animal or human, with a sense of fear over the possibility of their being lost too.
It’s not a fun way to live. Especially for someone who loves basically everybody.
It’s hard to find a Moment of Happiness in all this. But I am trying.
Last night, as I was in bed, trying to sleep, and wondering what the hell I was going to write about today, my cat Oliver joined me. Since Michael died, Oliver waits until I go to bed, and then he comes to stretch himself out on Michael’s pillow, right beside me. He purrs, and I sleep. Cleo used to do this too, if I woke during the night. It was like it was Oliver’s job to help me go to sleep in the first place, and it was Cleo’s job to help me back to sleep.
Now Oliver does it all.
But as I lay there last night, Oliver reached out a paw and put it on my hand. I put my other hand on top of his paw, and then he put his head down on us both. And he purred.
Oliver is, of course, grieving too.
We both slept.
I have been incredibly lucky to have so many special animals and special people in my life. Because of that, I am also incredibly lucky to love so hard that I grieve just as hard. For some, this amount of loss would mean a withdrawal, a pulling back, a refusal to become close to anyone else ever again.
Not me.
And yes, that helps. Despite. Anyway.
