I love animals

Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Another reason for me to live is gone.
This is what it feels like to say goodbye to a kitten.
From the day I brought him home, I imagined this moment countless times, but never like this. Now I see how naive my imagination was.
It happened so suddenly. One moment he was perched on my shoulder during our evening stroll, and I was leaning my ear against his belly as usual, listening to his purrs—a sign he was content.
Back home, he lay on his little bed while I worked at my desk, close enough to see him at a glance. Day after day, he was my quiet companion.
Then, out of nowhere, came a cry I’d never heard before—a sharp, strange sound. I called his name, but there was no response. Half his body had slipped off the bed, limp and motionless.
His body was still warm, eyes and mouth open, tongue partly out. I panicked. My mom drove while I called the vet, describing the situation through tears. The vet asked me to check for a reaction. I couldn’t feel a heartbeat, but I thought I detected faint breaths. “Are his pupils dilated?” the vet asked. They were. I clung to hope, but after seeing a video, the vet said, “There’s no color left—he’s gone.”
At the clinic, the vet checked his condition and listened for a heartbeat. “There’s nothing we can do. He’s already passed.”
I insisted, “But his body is still so warm.”
The vet replied gently, “That’s normal.”
Mom and I disagreed about what to do next. She held Qiqi tightly and said, “No cremation. We’ll bury him in our yard.”
I said, “But we won’t live here forever.”
She answered firmly, “Then we’ll never sell this house. We’ll stay forever.”
I cried, “I want him cremated, so I can keep him with me always.”
Mom finally relented. “Do what you think is best.”
On the way home, she whispered, “Qiqi, we’re going home.”
She believed his spirit should not be left alone at the clinic—that a loved one must guide him home.
Somehow, I needed one last night with him at home.
He lay on his little bed, beside my hand, just like every night when I’d rest my palm under his head to let him warm my fingers. Sometimes he’d sleep curled on my arm, purring peacefully.
But last night, there were no purrs. Never again.
As his small body grew cold, I covered him with his blanket, held his icy paws, and wept quietly. Our other cat, Mimi, who always fought for space on that bed, stayed far away all night—as if he understood.
The next day, we cremated him. I wrapped his cold little body, kept a lock of his fur, and chose a small urn I can carry with me always. I tucked him in with his favorite blanket and pillow, placed his little owl toy beside him, and watched as he was carried into the flames.
That was the real goodbye.
Now he’s back with me in the urn. Carrying him home, I felt an unexpected peace. I know we’ll never truly be apart.
It’s as if Qiqi came into my life just to accompany me through those nine difficult years. Time and again, when I stood at the edge of despair, he pulled me back. He became a reason to keep living.
Now he’s gone. And one more reason to live has faded away.
I don’t know how to face this sudden loss—just when everything was finally getting better.
Thank you for coming into my life, my dear. Mama will love you forever and always.

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