“I swear animals were given to us to teach us lessons and that it’s ok to let go sometimes.”

This was my friend’s response to the news that I think Oscar is going to pass away this week. And I hope he does, peacefully, inside my arms and at home. I want him to be surrounded by comfort and, most of all, reassurance that this bond doesn’t truly break. I made a promise to him that wherever we go, his ashes will, too. He landed at the shelter because his previous family abandoned him. I thought it important to reassure him that we’re his home—and will be for the rest of our lives.

This won’t be a long post, but I felt it important to reflect on this lesson sooner rather than later. Right now, he’s on my lap—and don’t get me wrong, I’m slightly annoyed. It’s not easy trying to type when my elbow dips down onto his head. But I’m wondering how many more days I have left to be annoyed by his little isms. I want to soak them up while I can for fear I’ll regret it later.

Of course, the conversation about euthanasia has begun. And, unlike last year when I struggled to put down Olive in the final moments of her life, I don’t necessarily feel the same devastation with Oscar. I think a lot of it has to do with learning to accept what I cannot change. At the onset of his diagnosis, I, of course, flew into panic mode. But we slowly learned to say no to major surgery because it was more important to give him quality of life than quantity. Now that we’ve reached this stage, I have moments where I wish we hadn’t. But him living with a droopy jaw and feeding tube was too unjustified. It was better to give him nearly two months of running toward a can of cat food when I popped open the lid. It was better to give him the excitement of flavors. I hold tight to that, even though my regret is beginning to slightly mount.

I don’t fear putting him down as much as I once did.

But I’m still praying he goes peacefully to sleep. He won’t even know it happened.

They say animals don’t greet death in the same way people do. Humans know what they’re leaving behind. Animals, on the other hand, recognize death as a natural course of life. What an honor it is that in his final days, he looks to me for comfort.

I know that once he goes, life will return to normal. There will be more money in our paycheck because we won’t be spending a few hundred dollars every few weeks on medicine. Our cabinets won’t smell like medicine. I can use my blender to make smoothies, not tuna-infused mousse. Feeding time will go back to normal, and we won’t spend 45 minutes feeding him. I’ll get a shower without him trying to duck in—a quirk I think he developed in response to his illness. Most of all, we won’t be consumed with worry as to when the other shoe is going to drop. Our mental bandwidth will be returned to us.

And I know we’ll move forward quickly. For as bad as that sounds, we’ve had ample time to grieve. It’s like when my dad died. I didn’t grieve him nearly as much as I did my mother because I had years to do it. I had a chance to say my goodbyes and make my peace. I didn’t with her, which is why so much of the pain lingers.

I know that it’s time.

And to my friend’s message, that it’s okay to let go.

What Oscar taught me most of all was the essence of time. He was five when we adopted him, and he’ll be 14 when we lose him. He saw my husband and me through every stage of our relationship, from dating to marriage—and nearly seven years into being married, too.

We let go of the dating stage and moved forward into unchartered territory, not knowing what battles and pleasures we would face.

The same is true for pet ownership.

You adopt an orange tabby cat from the shelter.

He’s in the bottom cage to your left. Much bigger than he really needs for comfort.

He’s not the first one your eyes gravitate toward, but he’s the one that captures your heart. He meows—loudly. He bounces his head against the cage and thinks your fingers are toys or food. He purrs, so trusting already, as if he didn’t just endure the trauma of being left behind when his family moved.

He stayed in the house waiting for them for a month.

And that tells you everything you need to know about what kind of cat he is. Or maybe a friend.

He’s loyal.

And he’s kind.

He doesn’t realize that the pillow he’s resting on hasn’t always been his. He doesn’t realize that this food wasn’t always here, available to him. He follows you around the apartment, just wanting to be with you.

And then he is with you. For nine years.

He sees you through moving apartments, to another state, and the death of your mother. He walks beside you as you venture into the unknown. He’s there when you try to make a baby. He’s there when you’re sick or watching a movie. He’s waiting for you on the return from vacation, happier than ever to see you but also completely compatible with whoever was watching him.

He trips you in the morning while you are trying to feed him, and you get annoyed. “Oscar!” becomes a favorite phrase, and he seems unfazed by his deadly actions. He also doesn’t care if you’re allergic to him; he will climb to the top of the bed to rest by your neck. And if you break out in a rash, so be it.

After all, he just wants to be with you.

Morning.

Noon.

Night.

You are the light of his life. This short life.

14 years should have gone by slowly, but it hasn’t.

This past decade was warp speed.

And now we live on the precipice of losing him.

Losing a part of our story.

We are losing the first pet we ever adopted together.

We are losing that chapter of our lives.

I’m not ready for the story to end, but losing him is like reading the final page of my favorite book. I may not read it again, but it will remain on the shelf.

Yes, it’ll remain on the shelf.

To my Oscar buddy, I love you. And I will miss you.