Pet Memorial Community

This page is to honor the unconditional love our animal friends give us and to acknowledge our human need for our stories to be shared and seen.

If you would like to share a memorial post about a dearly departed animal companion, please submit your story of up to 500 words and 1-3 photos.  At my discretion, I may ask for modifications of any overly graphic descriptions of injury or illness.  The post will remain here forever, though there may be alterations in style over time with website design changes.

Tribute to Nuggies, 2007-2024

The story began with Mona and Lisa, two calico kittens found in a dumpster and raised on a horse ranch.  I never met Lisa, but Mona became Nuggies because she knew from the day she was born that her purpose in life was to be pet on the head as many times as possible by as many people as possible.  She was the golden retriever of cats – she never met a stranger because they were all her friends already, whether they knew it or not.  She was an infinite supply of unconditional love, from when she was young and robust with luxurious fur and lovingly termed “big-boned”, to when she dwindled in old age to the tiniest miniature lion.  She brought delight to many people with her bright little chirp and the gentle way she would pat her paw on your face to let you know she was there.  She had no demands and lived a long life, weathering many seasons of change with her human.  Rest in peace, sweet girl.  I love you forever.  I am honored that you chose to share 12 years of your life with me. I was so lucky to have you.

Tribute to Sunshine 2012-2019

Sunshine is not an orange cat.  She is perfectly tuxedo with a white ruff and little white gloves and boots in exactly the right spots.  Her name comes from her sweet, affectionate personality.  I adopted her as my very first pet when she was a scared, 6 month old kitten and I was a lost college student feeling lonesome after returning home from an exciting trip abroad.  Her foster parent described her as having a “quirky” personality and that she “made biscuits when she was happy”.  She was hiding in the back when I went to pick her up at the adoption table and she curled up in my arms to hide amidst all the eager, purring cats that I could have chosen.  Over time, she showed her love by “guarding” my feet at night, snuggling under the blanket for naps, and jumping up in my lap at the most inopportune moments.  Over the years, I became involved in fostering animals/volunteering/petsitting, and adopted quite a few more animals of my own.  But she was the very first and the smartest and expected to live the longest, being the youngest.  Only Sunshine knew how to open a closed door to let herself and the other animals out.  Only Sunshine jumped up on the kitchen counter to “help” me with the dirty dishes and enthusiastically rip open bags of bread and bagels and carbs.  She liked tuna juice but not tuna meat.  She had the roundest yellow eyes that would regard me with infinite wisdom through whatever minuscule upheavals in life I went through.

I lost her too soon at 7.5 years of age when she suddenly developed a very aggressive abdominal tumor that quickly swallowed up all her internal organs and seeped into her chest.  I was away on a family vacation when we got the diagnosis and I prayed she would live long enough for me to come home and say goodbye.  She only had 3 weeks from the initial diagnosis before she started eating less and breathing heavily one night.  There was fluid in her chest cavity, you couldn’t see anything in her abdomen but the cancerous mass, and her heart was working too hard.  I wanted so badly to keep her longer.  She was still walking and purring and just too alive compared to my mental image of a sick animal.  But in the end she was still only an animal who didn’t understand why she was in pain and who didn’t deserve to suffer any longer just for my sake.  I’m not sure who will make me happy now when skies are grey, but I promised my Sunshine that I will see her again one day.  Someone wise once said that those who pass away never truly leave us, they live on in our hearts.

Tribute to Domino ~2000-2016

Domino was a grouchy, fat, old cat in a cage when I first saw her. Her black and white markings were extremely asymmetrical and such that her little face looked like a cow’s. As a foster mom with a soft spot for geriatric cases, I fostered her for a few months, along with other cats and kittens who came and went to permanent homes, but Domino was my “come-back” kitty. Possibly due to her age and the fact that she developed the very common kitty condition of hyperthyroidism, people kept giving her back to me. Three different potential adopters tried her out for a month or so and decided she was not right for them.

After this, I realized Domino was meant to be mine, and I opened up my heart to her. She was nothing like any of the cats I’d had before. She had an obnoxious meow that she wasn’t shy about using, a voracious appetite, and a real penchant for peeing on wet towels. She had a trashcan mouth as bad as any labrador’s. She would come trotting up on her old arthritic paws when dinner was being made and do her best to trip me up and steal tidbits like a shameless beggar. Mostly she slept, in the funniest positions and with the happiest smiles and twitches of her whiskers.

She threw a clot one Sunday morning somewhere in her 16^th year and lost the use of her back legs. My heart broke on the spot. The next few hours were a whirlwind of doctors telling me her chances were slim and realizing what I needed to do for her. She was in pain and she died in my arms. She’d taken a chunk of my heart and run with it. I loved that little cat. She was so feisty and determined and full of life. She’d grown quite skinny towards the end, despite the management of her disease.  I have never been sadder in my life to have my leftovers untouched. The hardest part for me was accepting what I considered to be the unfairness of her death. I imagined her slipping away gracefully in her sleep or me having the opportunity to feed her a glorious last supper of all her favorite things before she left, but she left in such a hurry. I only wanted for her to go peacefully, but I see now that I am the one who is not at peace. She’s already in a much better place. Maybe someday, I’ll see her again.