I love animals

Yesterday, I lost my eight-year-old Ah Cheng—the orange cat who had been with me since he was a kitten.
A few days ago, he started refusing food, curling up motionless in the corner of the sofa. The vet gently stroked his back and said softly, “His organs are failing. We’ve done all we can.”
I held Ah Cheng in the hospital hallway, his head resting weakly on my chest. Just like every time I was sad before, he gently patted my hand with his paw.
But this time, I could clearly feel his breathing growing shallower, his body slowly turning cold…
In his last moment, he nuzzled against me once more, as if to say, “Don’t cry.”
Just two mornings ago, he mustered the strength to jump onto the dining table, pawing at my hand for canned food.
Now when I open the door, there’s no orange furball rushing to rub against my legs in the entryway.
His favorite spot on the sofa is empty; the scratching post on the windowsill still bears his marks.
I walked over and called out of habit, “Ah Cheng, time for brushing~”
Only after calling did I realize—no little furball would come running anymore.
At night, lying in bed, I reached out to the side—where Ah Cheng always curled up to sleep—but now only cold sheets remain.
A few orange hairs still cling to the pillow. Holding them, my tears fell again.
Today, Auntie Li from next door brought over some fruit. Seeing Ah Cheng’s food bowl still there, she sighed and said, “Dear, why not get another cat? Having a little companion might ease the pain.”
I shook my head, pointing to Ah Cheng’s small blanket on the sofa: “It’s not the same, Auntie Li. For eight years, he sat with me when I worked late into the night; when I cried after a breakup, he curled in my arms and nuzzled my tears away. He wasn’t just a cat—he was family.”
Auntie Li didn’t press further, just patted my shoulder.
Ah Cheng’s toys are still in the living room. Every time I pass by, my heart aches softly.
I know this grief will take time to heal, but I’ll always remember: an orange cat spent his whole life warming eight years of mine.
Ah Cheng, thank you for walking beside me all those days.
May you run freely and eat all the canned food you want on the Meow Star, with no more pain.
And I’ll be okay—carrying your memory with me as I keep going.

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