I have always adored cats in all forms. They’re in a close tie with gorillas as my favorite animal. I grew up watching nature shows, and by far my favorite segments were those covering lions. There is something about a cat’s actions that mercilessly tickles my funny bone. Their behavior can present such a contrast. I love the way that they are always vigilant and alert, yet some of the laziest animals in the world. When they are relaxed and feeling playful, they will walk into the midst of a pride with the confident stride of a runway model, then collapse on a friend as though their bones have suddenly turned into air. They can be the definition of scaredy cats, yet they are fierce hunters and terribly curious.

Did you know that domesticated house cats share over 95% of their DNA with lions?

I think cats’ curiosity is what has always endeared me to them the most, followed closely by their playful nature. I have always had cats in my life, and I hope that I always will.

When I was six years old, my family moved to a house that had a two-and-a-half-acre back yard, and I was in heaven with all of the wildlife. Horses roamed next door. At one point, my older brother kept rabbits. We had dogs and cats, but they were relegated to the outdoors. All of them except for Kitter, that is.

Kitter was a kitten we picked up from a house that was advertising “Free kittens to a good home.” She was meant to be an addition to our outside mouse patrol, but I fell head over heels in love with her and begged my parents to let her sleep in my bedroom. They relented, and she became my nightly companion.

My father installed a cat door on the human door connecting our kitchen to the back yard. Kitter was free to come and go as she pleased. I was never sure if she was in the house until a furry, gloved paw would shoot out from under the couch as I was walking by. She would bat at my feet and I would squeal in delight. I felt bonded to all my cats, but Kitter was different. Kitter entered my life at a time when I was experiencing the loss of my extended family.

Both of my parents were born into a small religious cult that completely isolated us from the outside world. My mother was thirty-six before she ever turned on a radio, thirty-seven before she ever turned on a television.

Both sides of my extended family were also a part of the religion. So when my parents decided to leave the cult, we left behind everything, and everyone, we knew. I wasn’t aware of just how much I missed my extended family until I began to find solace in our animals, especially Kitter.

She was my playful escape, my cuddle buddy. She was a constant welcomed distraction… until one warm summer morning in August.

I don’t remember my mother waking me from sleep, but I do remember the look of concern pressed tightly across her brow as she asked me to join her. I rose from my bed and groggily followed her to the kitchen, where I was surprised to find my father waiting for me. He should have already been on his way to work.

I was still rubbing the sleep from my eyes when my father went down on one knee in the middle of the linoleum floor. He planted the foot on his other leg flat on the ground in front of him, making his leg a bench for my little frame. When I approached him, he gently pulled me into a seated position on the bench.

He didn’t say anything at first. He held his breath as I stretched out the stiffness from a night of slumber. He gave me plenty of time to process the moment, but the longer he waited to speak, the more confused and scared I became.

Sensing my dismay, my father took a last deep breath and looked at me with damp, blue eyes. “I’m so sorry, sweetie,” he began. “It was an accident. I didn’t mean to do it. I…”

I placed my right arm around his neck. He had turned away from me now and I wanted him to look at me again.

“It’s okay, Daddy,” I said, having no idea if the impending admission truly was okay or not.

He briefly looked up at my mother, who revealed only a pair of watery brown eyes beneath her glasses, and my anxiety heightened.

My father gathered himself and then turned to me once again. “I’m so sorry, sweetie… I… I accidentally ran over Kitter and killed her this morning while you were sleeping.” He pulled in another deep breath and repeated, “It was an accident. I’m so sorry.”

For what must have seemed like an eternity for my father, I took my time processing the horrible truth. Kitter’s memory came to me in waves. I envisioned her kitty paw darting out from under the couch as I approached. I heard the deep, melodic purr that reverberated next to me as we lay in bed and waited for dreams to overtake reality.

I stiffly sat on my father’s knee. I didn’t want to hurt my father any further and was determined not to show my pain… but I couldn’t help the emotion that began to fill my core. Grief bubbled up like a lava lamp, sending softened wax gurgling to the top.

As much as I tried to hide my devastation, my emotion began to take shape physically. First the corners of my mouth melted toward my chin—the same chin that was now jutting out and quivering in an attempt to stifle the wail I really wanted to release. My eyes filled with tears, and I bowed my head in agonizing grief to sob for my slain companion.

My father released me directly into my mother’s waiting arms. There, I released the sob that had caught in my chest as I tried not to make my father feel any more guilt than he already did. My mother gave my father an “I’ve got this” glance, and he took leave to go to his job.

My mother hastily took over and reiterated, “It was an accident.”

“I know!” I sobbed. “But… Kitter!”

“She didn’t feel anything,” my mother reassured me.

“Kitter!” I wailed.

My mother knew then that it was pointless to continue to try to console with words. Instead she volunteered, “We can say goodbye. We can have a memorial.”

That temporarily halted my tears, and I immediately began to plan the day of remembrance.

I don’t remember the specific date of Kitter’s death, but I can remember that there wasn’t a cloud in the sky that day. In fact, it was one of those Midwestern, breezy, beautiful fall days that an author prays for in times of necessary inspiration. The nights were beginning to cool enough to signal that the trees might want to consider a display of colorful shedding, and the air seemed purified enough to cleanse any ailment. But to me, it was a very dark day with nothing to do other than grieve.

My father had gathered himself enough after his horrifying realization to take Kitter’s body to the back of our property and place her into the grave he dug.

Upon hearing where she was laid to rest, I determined that her grave would be my first stop on this, an entire day dedicated to mourning the premature passing of Kitter.

The first thing I did was write a letter to her. I wrote about how she was the best kitty I had ever known, and ever would. I told her what I would miss the most, what I would remember the most, and how I would do everything in my power to keep her memory alive.

Then I went to my closet to find black. I enlisted my mother’s help, as most of my dresses were pastel. She had some black pieces in her wardrobe that allowed me to pull off the mourning look I was trying to achieve.

Once my letter was written and my outfit complete, it was time for my pilgrimage to Kitter’s burial site.

I opened the back door and slowly ambled over the green slopes that jutted out from the back of our house, fearing I might faint in route. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time to travel the distance, but once I caught a glimpse of the freshly dug earth, I sprinted as fast as my little legs would carry me and flung myself across her grave upon arrival.

I wept until my lungs burned from the deep inhales I was forced to take between sobs, pulling in dirt with browned leaves. I read my letter over the freshly dug earth, stumbling through every line due to the vast amounts of tears that were impeding my vision.

I whispered to her that we couldn’t hold a grudge against my father for such a horrific turn of events. I gave a thousand pledges to miss her, think of her every day, never replace her, and always hold vigil when I saw the space under the couch where she liked to hide.

My neighbor and best friend came over around noon, and Mom fixed us a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I suggested that we take our lunch outside where, to the side of the house, I had erected a makeshift grave and headstone as a memorial of sorts. There we could lament over Kitter’s unexpected passing.

Jennifer threw herself into the grieving with all the fervor a best friend could muster. We cried between bites of our sandwiches and all-out wept when nothing was left on our plates. We mourned over the demise of Kitter until the sun began to dip over the back yard and Jennifer’s Mom beckoned her home.

Dad returned from work, still filled with grief over the accident. Dinner was served in observing, empathetic silence. My brother choked down his vegetables without much protest, and when it was suggested that we all have dessert at Dairy Queen, thoughts of vanilla cones dipped in chocolate began to dance through my head.

While sitting on wooden picnic tables outside the Dairy Queen, my mother gingerly approached me. “When you’re ready,” she began slowly, “we could look for another kitten.” Trepidation was written all over her face as she tentatively continued. “I mean… I know that you loved Kitter very much, but I just want you to know that…”

“I’m ready!” I declared.

My mother stammered, “You’re… ready… for what?”

“I’m ready for another kitten!” I stated.

And with that, a slow smile came to my mother’s face. “Well, all right then!” she exclaimed.

And so, Audrey’s grieving process began to reveal itself at the tender age of six.

Recently my mother said, “I have never seen a person who can experience human emotion the way you can. You feel grief in every nook and cranny of your soul. You cry, you scream, you hurt… and then you pick yourself up, dust off your shoulders, and wonder what lies around the next corner.”

I was thirty when I adopted a nine-week-old Rottweiler puppy I named Annie. Annie immediately became my fur baby, and when I experienced another familial loss in my thirties, I credit her for saving my life. But Annie was also a lot of work. I constantly worried about her well-being. She died six months after my father passed.

My mom said, “I was so worried about your emotional state after Annie passed. To lose your father is one thing. To lose your fur baby is another. To lose them both within a year is catastrophic.”

“Indeed it is,” I agreed. “Unless you have wittle wions who make it all better.”

In 2020, I was drawn to Lady Jane Grey because of her name and attached picture. She reminded me so much of Kitter, even though her markings were different. Her demeanor came through in her photo, playful and comforting. When I went to the Humane Society to pick her up, Nugget was shouting in a cage just inside the door. My stepdaughter approached the cage and tentatively put a hand inside. Desperate for pets, Nugget leaned so aggressively against my daughter’s hand that she fell off of the perch on which she was sitting.

I looked at the woman behind the counter and said, “We’ll take her too.”

We brought the wittle wions home, then went into lockdown due to COVID. The wittle wions didn’t have a clue that the world was shut down. They simply existed in much the same way Kitter had. They went about their day napping and playfully batting at my feet from their hiding spot under the couch. They healed parts of my heart that I had never acknowledged were ripped. They were, and continue to be, such a salve to so many parts of my life that gape open with loss. For anyone who says that they don’t like cats, my thought is, “Obviously you weren’t paying attention.”