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.

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.

Regrets are useless.

And they are. Because you can’t change the past, only the future. But that doesn’t mean I stop kicking myself for not taking a photo every single time Binky tried to get on my lap. Or wish I’d given him every single one of my french fries the last time he wanted them. Or wish I’d not yelled at him that last time he just wouldn’t stop trying to climb across my desk where he almost broke half a dozen things.

I wish I’d told him every single day how much I loved him. I know. He’s a cat. Even though he was an amazing cat who was more perceptive than any creature I’ve ever known in my entire life, he didn’t understand English. At least not in the way humans do.

But I’m pretty sure he understood what “Binky, I love you” meant. The last couple of years when he was battling cancer and his arthritis was the worst, there were days I’d tell him ten times a day. Especially once COVID happened and I was home with him. But there were still days I know I didn’t tell him. And all the days over all the years we had him when he was his massive, energetic, pre-cancer, pre-arthritic self? I know I didn’t tell him enough those days.

I HATE that COVID exists. Hate that it meant I couldn’t hug his oncologist or his cold laser technician. Or his acupuncturist. I hate that it meant we had to hand him off at the vet’s parking lot every time he had an appointment.

But I am so very grateful that it gave me an entire year home with my boy (and with Wingnut and Abbie too). An entire year where I was fortunate enough to have him close by. Often in my office with me. Where I got to meditate with him on my legs. I’d lie down on my office couch and he’d usually try to get on my lap before I even situated myself. Usually that made it almost impossible for me to get comfortable. Sometimes I had to take him off my lap multiple times before he could settle properly. I hate that I didn’t just let him do whatever the fuck he wanted. Even though if I had, he likely would have fallen or slipped or I couldn’t have meditated at all.

I talk to him a lot now. When I’m in my office. When I walk by his picture. When I hold his collar. I tell him how sorry I am that I couldn’t fix it all. That I didn’t give him more fries. That I ever told him, “No.”

If I knew then how I’d feel now? I’d have taken him outside even if it was dark and raining. I’d have given him so many extra jars of baby food.

Binky had the best life. At least for the 12 years he was with us. All we know about the six previous years is that at some point, he was shot with a BB gun. The oncologist found a BB embedded in his chest when he was undergoing cancer treatment.

He knew he had the best life. He knew he was loved beyond measure and he loved us back even more. So yeah. Regrets may be useless, but I still have them.