Goodbye, Sweet Kitty.

We said our goodbyes to our cat Misfit late last week, and it was one of the hardest decisions I've ever had to make. It's a special kind of torture to love someone so much that you don't want them to suffer but also to be the one to sign the papers that end their life. Awful.

The details of her illness don't matter at this point (and you really don't want to hear the specifics), but she had dealt with a growth since last November, which we discovered was cancerous when she had surgery to remove it in January. It was a very rare type of cancer, in fact, which none of the veterinarians we spoke to—even the oncology specialists—had seen more than a handful of times in their careers. $10,000 radiology treatments were obviously out of the question, so we hoped that the surgery would slow the tumor's spread and return, but by July, she needed a second surgery. And by October, it was back again, along with clusters of what felt like grapes in her abdomen. The cancer was spreading.

The most difficult part of last week for Mark and I was that Misfit wasn't acting any differently. She was her same spazzy, loveable, loudmouthed self. Still watching the birds and attempting to chase falling leaves from the window sill. She still ate like the 12 lb. cat that she was. She still cuddled and purred and begged for treats. She was only ten years old, which isn't all that old for a cat.

But the cancer was going to get worse; we didn't know when, but we knew it would. And although it felt like too early for us to say goodbye, I have to remind myself that to have waited for a physical sign from her would have been to have waited too long.

I know some people won't understand what we went through. She's just a cat, they'll say. But she wasn't. Misfit was a part of our family. The three of us were a little family. For all of the nine years Mark and I have lived together, she's been there with us. She was the most dog-like cat I've known, and she won over the affection of almost everyone who she came in contact with. She was truly hilarious—fetching milk rings that we'd throw for her over and over, performing tricks for treats, begging at the door to go outside, meowing to say "bless you" whenever we'd sneeze.

Our condo seems strangely quiet. Over the weekend we cleared out a lot of her belongings, but I still find reminders of her everywhere. Out of habit I left the window blinds raised a foot at the bottom last night, only to remember that there was no cat who would need to peer outside.  

We've been asked a dozen times if we're going to get another cat. The question surprised me the first few times. How could I possibly even think about another cat? It's only been three days! A new cat right away would simply be an attempt at band-aiding my grief instead of feeling it. Part of me wants to swear off pet ownership altogether—it's just voluntary and inevitable heartbreak. But I know that reaction is coming from the fresh pain of losing her. We have a lot of love to give, and I'm sure someday we'll find a new furry family member. But for now, I grieve for my sweet Misfit, Miss Fittlestein, Fitter-Fatter Pitter-Patter ♥

PS - A big thank you goes out to all the supportive and wonderful people I'm surrounded by. So many people reached out to me on social media when all of this was happening to offer condolences and words of comfort, and my sweet neighbor and fellow cat lady Renee even dropped off some muffins for us. You all are wonderful, and made me feel loved during this sad time. xo.