A Letter I Wish You Could Read

Dear Gregory,

I remember the first time I heard the knocking on the door. I don't think that was your intention. I'm not even sure you knew your intention.

"Go away, Greg," I had said, violently sobbing.

But you wouldn't leave. It was as if you knew what I was doing in the bathroom. But there was no way for you to know, it was impossible. Yet, you insisted on coming in. Sill, I didn't want you to see me like that. To see me sobbing, on the brink of ending my own life. Still, I suppose it was better than finding my body, however you might have managed that.

I slowly lifted my right wrist from the palm of my hand, raising my arm, and put a shaky hand on the door handle before unlocking the door. As I did, I looked down and saw your paw make its way under the door, as if searching for me. I cried even harder when I heard your meow. Slowly, I opened the door, wondering if I'd even be able to go through with it when I saw your face.

As soon as I did, you jumped right into my lap and started purring. You put yourself between me and the blade I put on the floor between my legs. There's no way you could have known. But it felt like you did.

I cried even harder. I picked you up and I squeezed you and I cried. You shook yourself free from my grip and made your way to your food dish.

Of course. I forgot to feed you.

By the time I had, I had already forgotten about killing myself. From then on, we seemed to have a mutual agreement: I keep you alive, and you do the same for me.

Every time I felt myself slipping, you were there. You would climb into my lap, whether it be for cuddles or even just to let me know I forgot to feed you again. I began giving you treats every time I took my medicine. After that, you never let me forget to take my medicine.

I was alone. Nearly everyone I have ever cared for had died at that point. Much of my family had passed young, many friends had died. But I still had you. And you had me. As long as you were okay, I was okay. Whenever you got sick, I became so worried. How could I manage without you? And I'm sure you thought the same whenever I was sick, in your own cat way.

One time, I took you with me on a trip. You didn't like the crate, so I got a harness and a leash. You seemed like a free spirit, like me, and would have loved to wander. I could not have been more wrong. You hated the outdoors. You would hiss at everything around you, stick by my feet, tripping me so often, I almost wondered if you really did want me dead, and if everything was just a front to get food. So, I kept you inside. You seemed happier there.

When I first got you, they told me you were probably an indoor cat. But they didn't know for sure. They found you in the street, abandoned and alone, but said you had a lot of personality.

"He won't beg," they told me. "He'll negotiate. You scratch his back, he'll scratch yours... in a sense."

They named you Gregory as a joke, because they said they loved giving the animals human names. I considered changing your time, but it grew on me. It felt right. And, after a while, when I told everyone about Greg, who was keeping me alive, they all laughed when they found out you were a cat. I liked making people laugh. You did, too, I think. I like to think you knew about the stories I told.

And the shelter was right. At every turn, every decision, you had input. It took me four tries to find a food you liked. Wet food, with some dry kibble mixed in. The expensive brand, not that off-brand stuff. And you got bored of certain toys easily. Nothing with bells. It had to be attached to string. And I had to be playing with you. Otherwise, you'd scratch the furniture.

That's why, in the end, it wasn't my decision. It was yours. You knew it was time to go.

When you could no longer climb into my lap. When you couldn't chase your tail on top on the cat tree. When you couldn't hold down that expensive food anymore, or even make it to the litter box. When you couldn't keep up with the toy mouse of the string.

Most importantly, when I cried, and you couldn't make it there to comfort me. I knew it was time. I had been in denial, but you accepted what I never could.

The last time I saw you alive, you had a look in your eyes. A strange, un-cat-like look of understanding. Of reassurance. In your eyes, I saw a plea for help; but more than that, I saw a look of acceptance. And it felt like you were asking something from me. Not food, not water. Love. The hard kind of love.

In that moment, through violent sobbing, I understood, too. I knew I wouldn't have to feel guilty for letting you go. You were telling me it was time. I knew that without you, I would have to carry on. I made so many friends by just sharing stories about your crazy antics. And I learned how to take care of myself because I had to take care of you at the same time.

Your whole life, you knew what it took me years to learn. You knew the value of life. The value of living your best life, authentically and unapologetically. And you taught me how to live mine. Now that you're gone, I know I have a struggle ahead of me. But because of you, I now understand what I'm capable of. I know that I can weather any storm. And I bury this letter with your urn so that you know that I won't forget that.

And I'll never forget you.