Ernie was more than just a cat—he was family. For ten years he lived his life on his own terms, an indoor-outdoor wanderer who always came back home like clockwork. That was his rhythm. That was our comfort. Until the last time.

The condition he was in…the only thing left to do was to take his pain away. Watching him in those final moments was one of the most horrific things I’ve ever witnessed in my life. Not because it was some abstract tragedy, but because it was happening to someone I cared about. Someone who had been a part of my every day for a decade.

There’s no preparing for that kind of moment. The look in his eyes, the weight of his suffering—it tore through me. I wanted so badly to make him whole again, to give him back the strength he had when he’d bolt out the door and come back hours later like nothing had happened. But all I could do was face the brutal truth: the kindest thing left was to let him go.

The only thought that’s given me even the smallest reassurance is this: through all that pain, I think he knew we were there. He couldn’t see us. But we kept talking to him. Even then, even in that awful moment, he managed to purr. That sound—weak but present—felt like his way of telling us he wasn’t alone. That he felt us beside him. That even at the end, there was still a piece of comfort.

The silence he left behind is crushing. Every corner of the house, every shadow outside feels wrong without him. Ten years of presence, habits, and love, reduced to absence. And I’m left with the memory of the last time—a memory I wish I didn’t have, but one I’ll carry forever.