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.

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.

But this time, it was our current neighbor’s cat, who had just got loose. Patricia heard the neighbors panickily looking around for a loose pet (they just got a dog) and we both sprang into action both as pet lovers and good neighbors.

Neo (if we heard right) wasn’t hard to catch. I walked out the back door and saw a flick of a tail just off the stairs, clicked my tongue and was greeted by a feline face coming around the corner and up the stairs to see me, very willing to be picked up.

But…

This is a cat Binky and I regularly saw in the window next door while Bink took his constitutional up the driveway. There was always a hint of ‘WHAT THE HELL HOW ARE YOU OUTSIDE WHAT ARE YOU DOING’ in the way Neo looked out the window[1] he (she?) was perched in.

When I saw the cat in the backyard… well, most of my brain was ‘Save the Cat, Save the World’.. no, ‘Save the Cat!’ It was an instinctual rescue. Get the cat close, pick it up, get it back to its family. And Neo came willingly, very happy to get close and get picked up, though there was a little struggle as we moved towards the gate.

But part of my brain felt a sense of loss. A wondering where that handsome white+more cat went, he regularly came out of this backyard, where is he? I told Patricia I half expected to open the back door and for the cat to sprint into the house. It’s anthropomorphizing, but I feel like he really was looking for Binky.

Was he? Probably not. I want others to feel this loss like I do—like we do. But maybe, just maybe, someone from across the way realized that someone was missing and slipped out their back door just to figure out where they went.

Edited to add: When I handed Neo back, I wanted to share how Binky and Neo would look at each other. How Binky had recently left us for his next adventure. How I was sorry that Neo might be wondering what happened. I don’t think I could have kept my composure if I had. And they were having a party of sorts, just guests visiting, and I didn’t want to harsh the mellow as it were. In the end, rescuing a lost pet was good enough… I think.

[1] Honestly, they might have two cats and, if they do, they’re both gingers which means maybe it wasn’t the same cat.

One of the most startling changes after Binky left was how quiet the house became. He was, to butcher Shakespeare, full of sound and love, signifying everything.

From his snoring to his purrs you could hear from across the room. His sighs, the sounds of his nails clattering on the floor, yowling to go outside.

But what I find I miss most of all is something particular. He’d get up with a little grunt from laying next to Patricia and jump down to the floor with a thump. He’d stretch, often with a little grunt, before walking with audible steps to the water bowl…

He drank a lot of water. His kidneys weren’t great and the prednisolone probably increased his thirst, so these sounds happened a lot.

…but when he got there, the sound that I miss most was the sound of his tag tinkling against the side of the pyrex container we used for their water (followed by the sound of lapping water like you’d expect from a lion).

After we’d go to bed and Binky snuggled up to my legs or, more likely, between my legs, occasionally he’d wake me up as he got up. I’d hear him stretch on the wooden side table before jumping down to the carpet and I’d hear him walk down the hall. Sometimes I’d hear litter getting displaced as he used the litter box but more often, it’d be the same as upstairs—the tag against the glass bowl followed by lapping water and then, after he slaked his thirst, him landing back up on the side table before making his way back down the bed to reclaim his space.

It’s funny. As I wrote this, Abbie jumped down off her tree and made her way to the water dish (albeit a different one now). No sound of her tag hitting the dish and just a barest hint of the sound of her lapping up water, and that’s just because the tv wasn’t playing.

Just now, as I sat on the couch working, he walked up to the cat tree where Abbie lay on the second tier and murred up at her. I looked over and told him he could get up there, that there was room for him, albeit in a hushed tone since I was the only one up. Wingnut stopped talking to Abbie and turned his attention to me, making a few noises before prancing towards the french doors to the dining room.

“Must just want more of his food,” I thought. So I got up “What’s wrong, Wingnut?” He started off towards the kitchen with his playful prancing, murring and chirping all the way.

As we walk into the kitchen, he looks down at a collar on the floor. For a split second, my heart thumps in my chest before I realize it’s not Binky’s rainbow. He looks up at me and back to the collar. I get a little closer (damn old eyes) and see the sleeping cat on the tag. Wingnut looks back up at me and then back down at his collar.

I get down on a knee, pick it up and place it around his neck with no complaints, no squirming. I can feel just a hint of “Thanks!” rolling off him.

Binky had a lot of vet appointments the past few years. We first found out he was sick when we brought him in for his regular every-six-months check-up. The vet felt his lymph nodes and you could just see her expression change.

We hadn’t noticed the swollen nodes. They were under his collar and just in a place we didn’t normally pet or scratch him. He hadn’t shown a single symptom or given us any indication he wasn’t feeling well. I don’t remember what the vet said, but it was something like “Oh, crap.”

The rest of Binky’s cancer journey is a story for another day. I want to honor the amazing work Dr. Megan Breit and her team at Blue Pearl did with Binky appropriately, and I don’t feel quite able to do that yet.

Today, I want to talk about another of Binky’s care team. Her name is Constance, and she works at Green Lake Animal Hospital as a Cold Laser Therapy technician.

Cold Laser Therapy is a common treatment for feline and canine arthritis (human arthritis and pain too). It’s non-invasive and usually causes no ill effects. Basically, the tech just moves the cold laser wand over the joints. There are no needles. It generally causes the animal no pain at all and from what we understand, actually feels pretty good to them. Maybe a gentle warmth if anything.

Anyway…

Constance always made sure to tell us all about Binky’s visit when she brought him back out to us. We only started Cold Laser Therapy after the onset of COVID, so we’ve actually never been inside Green Lake’s offices. But Constance would come out and collect Binky, carry him inside (he never needed a carrier because he was just THAT chill), give him his treatment, and then bring him back out to us.

She and Binky had a special bond. More than once, she told us she loved him. And not just in the “He’s such a great cat” way. Not in the “I love him like I love all of my cute feline patients” way. The way she said it? The way she treated him? How she talked to him?

She loved him.

Constance diagnosed his eye ulcers. She was concerned because his eye looked a little swollen, pulled in the doctor, and got him treated. The last time she saw him, only 3 days before he passed, she cleaned out his ears. No charge. Just saw his ears were dirty and cleaned them.

I have absolutely zero doubt that she loved him.

Today, we brought Constance and the rest of the staff at Green Lake Animal Hospital pastries. We called the front desk and asked if Constance had a few minutes to come out, and she was outside almost before we got out of the car.

And for the first time in over a year, I hugged someone I don’t live with. She didn’t care. I didn’t care. (Yes, we were both wearing masks, and John and I had our first vaccine dose just the other day.)

She knew already. The vet who came out to help ease Binky’s passing let them know because Green Lake is where his ashes are going. But still, of all the people who’ve treated Binky over the years, she was the one I knew loved him the most. Sharing a hug with her, it was possibly what I needed most in this world today.

Constance knew Binky had a big heart and a big soul. That he was simply…more. And today, we got to honor that with her for a few minutes. We will never forget what she did for our boy and how much she loved him.

We look around this house every day and see things that remind us about Binky—from the mundane to the special, from the dining room table he simply liked to walk across to the spot where he was fed where even Abbie wonders why there’s no food bowl for her to clean anymore.

One of the items in the house that I’m not sure what the endgame with is the lapdesk I used.

Or really, that Binky used as much as I did.

He’d be on it an average of once a day probably. Maybe a smidge less. He’d stretch and leave scratches in the surface. I’d pick it up with him sitting, standing, laying and move him to the ottoman just so I could go to the bathroom.

I can’t use it anymore. There are too many memories attached to it.

I can’t throw it out, and not only because it would be wasteful. I can’t give it to Goodwill because no one else will know how special it was.

For now, it’s going to sit in the downstairs window, on the shelf whereas a younger cat, Binky would lounge in the sun. It’ll be there for him to use if he ever wants to pay us a visit. Maybe if I get a Glowforge or some other laser etcher I could etch a portrait of him on it and just hang it on the wall, but for now, knowing it’s in a spot where he’d like it is going to make all the difference.

I feel silly adding this, but, when I carried it downstairs, I did so very gingerly, the same way that I’d lift it when he was on it, balancing it carefully so he wouldn’t fall. I talked to him through tears the entire way. I like to think of that silly cat laying there, waiting to perform on that shelf, just like he used to.