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.

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.