There’s a hole in my heart and an emptiness in the apartment.
This weekend I lost my beautiful, beloved cat Lubya. He died on Saturday unexpectedly.
I was away when he was found by his cat sitter and the building porter. When I heard what happened, I immediately packed up and started back to the city. As I drove, all I could think of was Lubya’s coat. Lubya was a big cat, something his vet remarked upon each time we went in for shots or check-ups. He wasn’t heavy but he was tall. His body was long and his metatarsals seemed exceptionally lengthy. I used to marvel when he stood on his hind legs—he must’ve reached two and a half feet easily. Standing that way, the grey Matisse-like markings on his white back were in full glorious display. He was a walking work of art.
But what I remember most was Lubya’s thick, soft fur. Lubya would greet me when I came into the apartment each night after work. We had a welcome-home ritual. I would kneel in front of him and squeeze his face between my hands. He would then bow his head, which was a signal to knead his neck. Then he’d lift his head once more, silently asking for another face squeeze. When his head was between my hands, our eyes would often lock. I once read that cats don’t like to be stared at; they often look away. Not Lubya. He kept a steady gaze, calmy looking into my eyes unfazed. His was an impersonal and yet completely present acceptance of and trust in me in that moment, an acknowledgement of the intimacy of having his head in my hands and the mutual pleasure that afforded.
Then he would lower his head and I would knead his neck again. After three or four rounds of this, it was time for dinner. I would run my hands down his back, feeling his thick, textured coat, noticing how the dark grey hairs almost glistened. On cue, Lubya would simply turn away and wander into the kitchen, ready to eat.
Last Saturday, no four-legged creature greeted me at the door. Lubya was gone and Mimi, his sister, was crouched in her hiding place under the bed, near the far wall. I flopped on my belly, whispering reassuring words then letting her, in her own time, emerge.
That night, Mimi and I sat together on the couch. She pushed against me often, trying in some cat-like fashion to get closer to me. She kept rubbing her face against my clothes, the sofa pillows. Once she curled up on my chest with her head close to my heart and cat-napped.
We clung to each other, disoriented and saddened by Lubya’s absence.
There are silly little things that throw me off: filling only one cat dish at meals, realizing I don’t have to open the bathroom sink faucet in the morning so Lubya can drink from it, cleaning an absurdly small amount of poop in the litter box. Whereas before I 
was thinking I’d have to restock the canned cat food soon. Now I worry I have too much.
What I wouldn’t give to stroke the soft grey fur of my beloved animal once again, gaze into his Zen eyes and say goodbye. He was a good cat, he was a beautiful cat. I miss him terribly.
—Anne Simpkinson
