Abbie…well, she’s Abbie. You know she’s always been a little princess who does whatever she wants. She sleeps on the bed now a lot. And she meditates with me. She even started using your big gray bed.

I miss you, buddy. Every single fucking day. And I’m so thankful I had a full year at home with you to give you all the love. I still wish I’d given you more. You were my best friend. My constant companion. John’s too. Wingnut likes to be on the couch with us now right where you used to be—except Wingnut doesn’t put his paws on my ankle like you always did.

We have so much love to give and I knew when we lost you that one day we’d bring another cat into this house. I didn’t know when, but I knew it would happen when it was supposed to. This new guy was hand-picked by the shelter that put you on the Cat Calendar cover and nicknamed you “Mr. Handsome.”

But as happy as I am that we’re (hopefully) going to add to our family tomorrow, it also makes me sad. Because I think you would have loved this guy. And I feel guilty, too. We’re not replacing you. That’s why I hate the question “When are you going to get another cat?” It makes it sound like we’re doing this to replace you.

That couldn’t be further from the truth.

There is NO replacing you. You were unique and special and irreplaceable from the first moment we saw you. Nothing will EVER replace you. That’s why we got your tag image tattooed on our arms. It’s why I wanted a piece of you with me always. Because you were more than just a cat. You were so much more than just a cat. I don’t know if NewCat (that’s what I’m calling him right now because he just has a placeholder name from the shelter and assuming everything goes well tomorrow, we’ll give him a name that fits him like we did for you and Wingnut and Abbie. (Though I still maintain Abbie should have been Princess because of her diva-like qualities.)

I miss you every single day. That will never change. And the first time I tell NewCat that he’s loved, I’ll probably cry a little because I’ll wish I could tell you I love you one more time.

The night after we decided to go meet NewCat, I dreamed that you came back to us. We knew you weren’t here to stay. It was that one last chance for us to tell you we loved you, hold you, hear your incredibly loud purr. But you also told us we should adopt NewCat and gave us your blessing.

Love you, buddy.

Note: NewCat will get his own posts on For Binky—after all, the goal of For Binky isn’t ONLY to remember Binky. It’s to remember the amazing souls we’re lucky enough to have in our lives. And I’m hoping that with NewCat around, it’ll also be easier to talk about Wingnut and Abbie too.

Some days, just opening this blog is too hard because I miss Binky too much. But I want to remember him. Everything about him.

I miss my bestest boy every single day. The house is still quiet, even though Wingnut has discovered his voice (at 5:00 a.m.). Abbie has taken up the mantle of meditation time, lying on my stomach while I try to destress.

But I went to clean the kitchen a little this afternoon and picked up a water bowl that John brought up from downstairs. Like any water bowl, it has some hard water stains on it, and it’ll never be perfectly clear glass again.

Binky was the only one of the cats who really drank a lot of water. The other two…they sip. Daintily. They get a little water in their food because they just don’t love drinking water like our big boy did.

So this bowl? It might never go back in the downstairs bathroom.

Seeing it, touching it, remembering…it was hard. And it just illustrates how very different Binky was.

Wingnut gets love every night. He’ll snuggle up next to me on the couch and try to wedge his ass as close as possible to mine. Abbie sleeps on the ottoman while we watch TV, close enough to look cute and get belly rubs.

But there are days I feel very, very alone because I don’t have my best friend next to me all day, every day anymore.

It was inevitable, I suppose. That someone would ask. I didn’t think it would bother me as much as it did, and it took me a while to figure out why.

Of course we’ll adopt another cat one day. That’s inevitable. I am a cat person. I like dogs. I’d like to get a dog some day. But at my core, I’m a cat person.

I’ve had cats almost my entire life. There will never (by choice) be a time in my life when I don’t have a feline companion. Or two. Or three. I’d even consider four.

After that, I think we’d have a really hard time. Feeding time alone would be maddening. Right now, Abbie Hoovers up her food like she’s never eaten before and never will again. Wingnut, on the other hand, prefers to eat slowly. Daintily. And if Abbie runs up to his food bowl and head butts him out of the way, he’ll just let her.

So when we feed the cats, either we feed them in two separate rooms (with a closed door) or I sit on the floor between Abbie and Wingnut and make sure she doesn’t race off to steal Wingnut’s food.

But going back to the topic of this post…

“Are you going to get another cat?”

The reason this bothers me is that it implies we’re going to replace Binky.

Note: I don’t believe the person who asked me this question would have ever knowingly implied that I wanted to replace Binky. In fact, I’m pretty sure that possible interpretation of the question never crossed their mind. I’m not at all mad at being asked, but I do want people to know how the question can come across.

Binky was my child in every way that counted. No, he wasn’t human. No, I didn’t give birth to him. But I don’t have human children. I loved Binky—still do—more than I could have ever imagined when we adopted him, and I’ve been fortunate enough to be the caretaker of many a cat.

We’ll never replace Binky. Binky was one of a kind. Not that there aren’t other amazing cats out there. Wingnut and Abbie are each amazing in their own ways. Different from Binky. Very. Different from one another. But still great cats.

We will adopt another cat when the time is right. I don’t know when that will be. I hope Binky will let us know somehow. That the right cat will make themselves known to us. A Facebook post at just the right time. Going to the pet store to find an adoption event and seeing an older, wiser soul who just speaks directly to us. I don’t know what it’ll take or how we’ll deal with it.

But we will never replace Binky.

No big deal. We found Binky and immediately fell in love with him.

Binky and Wingnut were together for twelve years. Every day (except the night Binky spent at the vet after his tooth extraction and the almost two weeks Wingnut spent at the vet after all of his surgeries for his UTIs.

The last week or so before we lost Binky, he and Wingnut spent a fair bit of time together. Whether that was because Wingnut knew what was happening or because Binky was giving off a vibe… I don’t know.

They were close when they were younger, but after Wingnut’s surgeries…he was always a little touched in the head, and the two of them weren’t glued to one another’s sides any longer.

But the last couple of weeks, I thought Wingnut knew. And now that Binky’s gone, he’s grieving too. He’s never been the most vocal cat. A lot of silent meows when he wants food, but that’s about it.

Since we lost Binky, he walks around the house just yowling.

I had to know. So I played a video of Binky for him. Wingnut was in another room, and when he heard Binky meow on the video, he came running with a look…it broke my heart.

So yes. Cats can grieve.

Wingnut was always our middle child. The quiet one. The one who never acted up (unless he decided to pee on something, which happened from time to time). Now, he’s the oldest. I don’t think he has any idea what to do or how to be.

Six months after we adopted him, he had to have all of his teeth removed. They were decaying and his breath…OMG, his breath.

For the past year or so, I knew he was slowing down. We redoubled our efforts. More acupuncture. Cold laser therapy. Reiki. I believe all of these things helped in their own way. Along with chemotherapy (which is a lot easier on cats than people).

But I knew. He was losing weight. He had less energy. Sometimes. There were days he still acted like a kitten even a month or two before the end. Okay. Maybe not a kitten. But at least a much younger cat.

I knew this Christmas and New Year’s would be our last with him. That’s partially why I took this picture of us. We woke him up for this, and I’m not sure he was all too happy about it. But…that’s what you do when you know it’s the end. Or…at least that’s what I do. Everyone grieves their own way.

We pre-grieved. A lot.

There were at least half a dozen times in the past year we thought it might be the end. But then he’d magically pull another life out of his ass (or make us do it…there was a lot of ass wiping the last six months or so because his arthritis often led to him falling over in the litter box).

Every time…we cried. Bawled even.

Yet when the end came for real, we were still unprepared. He was fine. And then he wasn’t.

He had the best death possible. Outside. In the sun. At home. With both of us holding him. But that doesn’t mean we wouldn’t give anything for just one more day with him. One more hour. One more minute.

I don’t remember exactly what it felt like to hold him anymore. Except that he was heavy. Even when he was light. He’d always kick at our arms, trying to get higher, closer, or just more stable.

Sometimes, Wingnut cries from the other room and for just a second, it sounds like Binky. And I’m still surprised at how quickly feeding time goes now.

I wish I’d taken more videos. We have a bunch, but not enough. Because there will never be enough memories of Binky.

One time, we had friends over and we were all in the backyard. The downstairs window was open, and Binky would often lie there to get fresh air (this was before we bought a leash and harness and would regularly take him outside).

We’re all hanging out around the outside table and we hear, “HELLLRRRRROOOOO?” Over and over again. I swear that cat was trying to say hello. (He could hear us talking, but he couldn’t see us overly well, and the minute one of us went inside, he was happy again.)

But…that’s not the only reason the house is so quiet now.

I talked to Binky all the time. Every time I walked into a room where he was it was, “Hey, buddy.”

When he got up (especially the past couple of years), it was, “Binky, do you want help?” We’d kind of trained him to ask. Not all the time, but he’d definitely ask for help when he wanted to be carried downstairs at night.

And that’s not counting all the times I just…talked to him like you would a friend. With the pandemic, it’s been just me, John, and the three cats for over a year now, and even though we’re both introverts…well…it’s been hard. But even before lockdown, I talked to Binky all the time. In part because he’d always talk back. Always.

He never gave me answers. Not in words. Not that I could understand anyway. But he’d meow back, in his “Momma’s talking to me!” way. For all I know, every single one of his vocalizations was a plea for food. Or outside. Or a clean litter box. But regardless…he’d talk back.

I don’t think a lot of us realized just how much we need human contact a year ago. I used to think working at home permanently, never having to see other people in person would be awesome. And don’t get me wrong…I plan on working at home as long and as much as I can. BUT…I’ve realized how much we need to be heard. And touched. And loved.

Binky was pure love. Eleven to thirteen pounds (depending on the year) of pure, solid, adoring love. To and for everyone he met.

Justifiably so as evidenced by the fact that Binky broke a wine glass by getting on the counter the second day we had him.

Anyway, every night, one of us would say, “Who wants to go downstairs?” Both cats knew that was the code for getting treats in the bathroom.

But after a year (or less, I don’t really remember) we gave them the run of the house. We still said the codewords, and they still came down. Until we stopped. I don’t know why. Different habits, different bedtimes, different job duties or commutes…who knows?

There have been a number of habits over the years. The latest (before we lost Binky) was for John to go to bed before me. I’d stay up and write for a while. Wingnut would go downstairs with John and have treats in the bathroom (with the door closed so Abbie didn’t try to steal them) and then when I went to bed, I’d give Binky calorie gel. After his cancer diagnosis, he needed to put on some weight, and he LOVED calorie gel. LIke he’d eat half a tube of it at a time if we let him.

Abbie would get a tiny taste of calorie gel too because we didn’t want her to feel left out.

After we said goodbye to Binky, “Bathroom Treats for Wingnut” just stopped. In part because Wingnut would often stay up with me on the couch now that Binky wasn’t next to me.

And within two days of Binky passing, Abbie stopped wanting calorie gel. Whether she sensed my sadness or didn’t want it because Binky wasn’t getting it or what, I’ll never know. But a couple of days later, since we were sad and wanted to make Wingnut and Abbie happy, I brought down a treat jar and we started having “bedtime treats.” Each of them get 3-4 crunchy treats on or near the bed.

Well, after two days of that? Wingnut no longer wants treats in the bathroom from John. He just wants treats from me when I come to bed.

So we actually want to get Abbie used to riding in the car without going to the vet. Or at least without going INTO the vet. She was nervous on the way there, but by the time we got home, she was just curious about everything going on around her.

If only we could do that with Wingnut. He has way too much PTSD from his surgeries to ever be comfortable in the car.

But back to Binky. He’s home now. In a beautiful cedar box with his name engraved on it. For now, he’s sitting on our mantle.

The house feels better now. Not good. Not like it was. It’ll never be what it was. But at least a little better.

The box is screwed shut. I’m not sure why this bothers me. I don’t want to see his ashes. And I definitely don’t want anything to happen to…spill them. I’m clumsy on my best day. And Abbie and Wingnut regularly get underfoot. They’re cats. That’s what they do. But it still bothers me in an odd, unexpected way. One I’m not willing—or able—to unpack (pun definitely NOT intended) right now.

In the next week or so, we’re going to get some remembrance items made for Binky. Glass-infused with a small bit of his ashes. We’ll put one piece in the backyard so Binky gets to be outside every single day.

I’m just glad he’s home.

He loved blankets. The orange one behind him? We wrapped him in it when he passed and had it cremated with him. The purple one? It’s on my lap right now.

I have Binky’s collar in my pocket. I’ve thought about making it smaller and wearing it as a bracelet. When Wingnut had multiple surgeries ten years ago and we didn’t know if he’d survive? I wore his collar around my wrist then for a few days.

I haven’t done that this time because I don’t want to change the collar’s size. I know, it’s ridiculous. Or should be.

It shouldn’t matter. Resizing the collar won’t suddenly make me forget how big he was. Or how perfect. Or how much I loved him. But I still can’t do it. Binky used to lie on top of me or next to me when I meditated, and I regularly hold his collar when I try to meditatie now. It doesn’t always work like it used to. Though Abbie still enjoys meditation time.

We’ve settled into this new normal. It’s not a normal we wanted. But I wake up and don’t immediately look for him. Until I walk by the couch and see a small, light-colored pillow and my brain thinks, “Binky!” Until I realize it’s not him.

Grief is hard. I would talk about Binky all day, every day if I could. I’d tell every person I met about him. That’s part of the reason I wanted to start this site. Because even though it makes me sad, remembering him also brings me comfort.

I’ve talked to a handful of friends this week who’ve had members of their family as special as Binky pass on. That’s helped too. Knowing that there are others who feel about their companions as strongly as I felt/feel about Binky.

I’ll have more stories over the next few days, but for right now…I just wanted to honor my boy.

This morning, I shared a photo of Binky and Wingnut from a couple of months after we adopted them. This photo, specifically.

Despite how things look in that picture, Wingnut really was small there. You can’t tell unless you look at his head. His head is so tiny! At least compared to the rest of him.

Anyway, someone asked about his name. So this is the story of how Wingnut got his name.

The first photo we ever took of the two of them? The very first night we had them? His name was Barney. I don’t honestly remember if he came named Barney or if we just picked Barney out of a hat.

Binky (formerly Elvis) took to his new name easily. It might have taken him two or three days tops? Honestly, I think he would have answered to anything simply because he was so happy to have a home.

But the kitten? He vexed us for at least two months. He just never seemed to learn his name. We’d call it out and he’d totally ignore us. “Barney? Barney? Hey, Barney!”

Nothing.

So we tried another name. I don’t remember what it was. Neither does John. All I know is that we went through at least three or four names, and he didn’t seem to like any of them.

Until one day, we were in the bedroom and Wingnut was lying on the window ledge. We tried his latest name, and he didn’t react. And then John said something very close to, “You’re such a little Wingnut.”

And he looked at us.

“Really? You want to be called Wingnut?”

An ear twitch.

Okay, then. Wingnut it is.

To be fair, when he was little, his ears were really really big. Like way bigger than his head. So he kind of looked like a Wingnut too. And that’s been his name ever since.