Who knew a cat so small could leave a hole in the heart so big?

Zoey was my dream cat—one I had wished for long before I ever held her. In mid-2008, several months after losing my beloved tabby, Kit, I found myself aching for light in a house that felt dim with grief. Even surrounded by my other feline companions—Whitney, Jazz, Zee, our loyal dog Bandit, and my fiancé, Dan—there was a heaviness that settled into every room. We all felt it. We needed a bright spot, and on June 14, Dan and I made the hour-long drive to a Bengal cattery to pick up my chosen girl, not knowing just how much she would significantly impact our lives.

June 15, 2008 – Zoey’s first photo.

I already had the name Zoey in my mind. It just felt right, and the moment I laid eyes on her— a tiny and beautiful bundle of spotted fluff—I fell in love. She was a fuzzy slip of a thing that fit perfectly in the palm of my hands. When I placed her in the carrier to bring her home, I was unprepared for the intensity of her reaction. She had a relentless, blood-curdling noise that bleated from her little lungs, and her petite paws had a death grip on the carrier with incredible strength, trying to pry it open to make her escape for freedom. She screamed like a wild banshee the entire trip home. This vocalization would soon be revealed as trademark Zoey forevermore.

Our Maine Coon, Zee, was three years old when he first met Zoey, and he was instantly smitten with this tiny ball of endless energy. Sure, the first encounter was awkward—Zee towered over Zoey like a mammoth giant, and Zoey was mildly curious, but certainly not impressed. But that quickly changed. They became inseparable, and it was common to find both curled up on the couch together, Zee’s paw lovingly and protectively tucked around her.

Several months later, I noticed subtle changes in Zoey. She’d stopped racing through the house and grown quiet, her belly round and her skin blushing a soft pink—she was expecting kittens. I had planned to get her spayed, but life had other plans. As her due date neared, her devotion shifted from Zee to me. It began with her coming to the couch each night to lie on top of my outstretched legs while I was watching TV. It was winter then, so I was bundled up in my thick, soft red chenille bathrobe. She loved the material on her tummy, and I could feel the miraculous rolling movement of her kittens on my legs. I would gently stroke her silky fur, a ritual that calmed us both.

In the early morning hours of February 12, Zoey woke me with an urgent cry. Guided by her insistent meows in the dark, I slipped into my robe that I had waiting by my bed, “just in case,” and followed her to the couch. She pressed herself into my belly, purring loudly as I held her close. Moments later, her body tightened, and then—barely audible—a tiny sound broke through the silence. She had delivered her first kitten right on top of me. I called for Dan, and when he turned on the light, we found the newborn nestled against my robe. We moved Zoey and her baby into the birthing box we had set up for her in our bedroom closet, and with us beside her, she safely delivered three more kittens.

Zoey intuitively settled into the role of mama, carefully cleaning each newly born kitten and encouraging it to nurse, so I could go to work with the sense that everything was okay. Unfortunately, however, when I returned home and opened the bedroom door to check on her, without even a second thought, she bolted up and out of her box. She promptly disregarded her new and completely helpless family and galloped out of the bedroom so quickly that I had no idea what was going on.

Of course, Zoey would run off to find Zee – he was her everything.

She intended to find Zee, as evidenced by her nuzzling up to him, and she made it clear that her kittens were the last thing on her mind, which concerned me. Newborns need full-time nourishment and warmth—both of which were supposed to come from Zoey. I tried to coax her back into the bedroom and into the box with the kittens, but every time I got her into the box, she would jump out as soon as I stood up. I did what any cat-loving person would do—set up camp in the closet with her. I grabbed the essentials—a snack, a pillow, a blanket, and my cell phone—and lay down. This worked—she jumped into the box, where the kittens very happily welcomed her, burrowing into her warm, soft belly and looking for milk.

I petted her and murmured words of encouragement, which greatly appeased her. If I was lying down, she was fine. As soon as I got up, she jumped up with me, so I spent the better part of the night and the following morning lying next to her and the kittens. The breakthrough moment was when I changed her bedding. Although cats have an instinct to keep their kittens clean, she could only do so much. I had to lift each tiny, fragile little kitten out of the box and place it on the blanket next to me so that I could put in fresh towels. The kittens squealed loudly, which caused Zoey such panic that I think it jarred her into recognizing that these little beings were indeed under her charge. She anxiously waited for me to finish, and once she was certain each kitten was safely accounted for, she jumped into the box, nuzzling and licking their fears away. The transformation from that point was astounding. There was no doubting her commitment and love for her babies, and her demeanor changed before my eyes.

A newly transformed and very content mama.

From then on, her role as mama was unwavering. We are blessed that three of her four kittens, Mia, Peanut, and Rolz, are still with us. The fourth, Zeuss Catt, lives with a family friend in Boston. But her role was not only unwavering; their devotion to her was equally compelling. Not a day would pass that one, two, or all of them were not cradled next to her at one point or another, generally one of them being groomed by her. Her relationship with Zee was also extraordinary. They loved one another deeply, constantly seeking each other out for companionship. The kittens adored Zee, too, and every nook and cranny of the house was a testament to the bond this feline family shared. Whether it be on top of the bathroom hamper, a bed, the couch, the ottoman in the dining room, our kitchen window, one of their cat condos, or somewhere else, some collective entity of their familial relationship would be evident.

Classic Zee and Zoey

Zoey on any given day with her adoring family – Peanut, Mia, and Rolz.

My bond with Zoey also strengthened. She was my girl. Seeking solace in the crook of my belly, my lap, or on my outstretched legs was a daily ritual through the ups and downs of life. I cherished the simple feel of her silky body next to mine, and I know she felt the same. During the good times, it was just a constant, sweet, and pure reassurance of our love, but during the tough times—recovering from several eye surgeries, for example —her presence was a soothing balm. It was that way during Zee’s end-of-life journey in 2022, too. Not only did she help keep me grounded as I faced an inevitable goodbye to a cat I loved dearly, but she also clung close to his side, along with his precious children.

I love to crochet, and Zoey would always be with me, no matter the project.

I often get migraines and have to sit on the couch. Zoey, along with Zee and Rolz, offers me solace.

A rare moment from 2015 with all my cats at the time. Naturally, Zoey was front and center with me, surrounded by Kizmet, Zee, Jazmine, Peanut, Rolz, and Mia, too.

Mia and Zoey surrounded Zee during his last days.

Winding down after a particularly exhausting and stressful day in 2023. Zoey was cradled next to my belly.

Everything I did was an opportunity for her to be with me. Even something as silly as me sitting on the couch each evening to eat dinner with Dan while watching TV. She felt the need to sit on my lap while I ate, purring up a storm. Unlike some of the others who were hoping for a morsel of food, she just wanted my companionship. More recently, she has allowed others, such as Dan, my son Joe, and my stepdaughter Crystal, to be graced with her presence on their laps, but it used to be only me. She had developed a pattern in her later years in which she’d snuggle on the couch with Dan, covered by her kittens, Mia and Peanut. At some point, I would join the crew and wrap myself in a soft chenille blanket. That was her cue. She would leave Dan and settle into my tummy for the night, tucked under the blanket.

I will dearly miss those simple moments.

She mellowed with age, but her vocalization never did. She got louder with time. Her yowls are part of her wild Bengal lineage, and I am not exaggerating when I say I could hear her screaming outside as if a murder were being committed in our house. There was. She would be in pursuit of a stuffed toy and, while “killing it,” would make a loud, yelping noise. We’ve been on remote work calls where people on the other end have been concerned that something was wrong. Nope. That was just Zoey.

Zoey is on the prowl, deciding which toy would be her next victim.

I will dearly miss that noise.

Our beloved Zoey, the undisputed Queen of our Castle for seventeen years, is now silent. It was the evening of November 19 at approximately 11:15 p.m. She was cradled in my arms, hearing my loving voice as I helped her cross into her next journey, one to be shared with her precious Zee, and other cat companions, Mr. Jazz and Harley.

Our lives will never be the same. Zoey was my everything. She was the reason I became a blogger, an author, and a cat advocacy expert. She was my leopard-inspired persona and my heartbeat during the highs and lows of my life. I am utterly crushed and devastated, but I did my best to give her the most loving, peaceful, and beautiful last moments with her family on this earth. It was an emotional toll for me, but I would not want anything less for her.

Last July, it slowly began. She was a notoriously picky eater on a good day, and getting her to eat has always been a challenge. She just stopped eating, and I was terrified. We went off to the vet. Ointments, medications, fluids, appetite stimulants, B-12 supplements, and a litany of every food under the sun to get her to eat. She appeared to have a parasitic infection and early stages of kidney issues. Thankfully, I found the magic combination and slowly got her to start eating again, and she seemed to rebound. But I knew my time with her had changed. I’ve been a cat guardian for over sixty years, and sometimes you just know. I began mental preparation.

Mia comforts her mama after her trip to the vet.

Every day is a gift.

This October, she stopped eating again. But this was different. I had been through this before with Kit and Jazz during their end-of-life. I took her to the vet. I did not want her to be in any pain, especially if it was something I could easily manage. But after Jazz, I made a promise: I would not put a cat of mine through a barrage of tests, trips to the vet, needles, force-feeding, medications, and more, to the point that my cat resented me, hid from me, and that their quality of life was questionable.

Zoey was nearly eighteen. I had wanted forever, but I also knew she had lived an exceptionally loving and extraordinary life. Her dignity was my priority. I took her to the vet. They diagnosed pancreatitis, but also stages of kidney failure. She was given fluids, appetite stimulants, and medication for pancreatitis. Shortly after, Zoey began to take refuge in the leopard room— a spare bedroom of ours with beautiful, natural sunlight spilling through the window and a safe, cozy feel. This is where she would go in years past, anytime she wasn’t feeling well. It was an instinct for her, I guess.

This was Zoey in the leopard room in 2012. When she wanted quiet time, this is where you would find her.

Full circle, I set up camp. Zoey’s life became my life. I brought my favorite pillow and the chenille blanket she loved so much. She was weak and slept most of the time, but as soon as she saw me and found out it was time for bed, her little face lit up in joy. She would cuddle into my belly, and I held her close to me each night. During the day, I would check on her constantly and come in to pet her and talk to her. Thankfully, I work remotely, so I was able to dote on her without interruption. I also obsessively bought mountains of cans of Fancy Feast—it seemed to be the only thing she would eat, but it had to be “fresh,” with the flavor being her favorite one minute, the next not. She would only eat a few bites, but I would open cans all day and night, giving her those fresh bites every couple of hours. The other cats were thrilled—this new routine of randomly getting Fancy Feast out of the blue was enthusiastically welcomed.

Setting up camp with Kizmet by my side in October. We spent nearly every minute we could together in this room with Zoey.

Dan and I lived in an up-and-down world. She would seem fine one day, but the next, we’d wonder if it was our last day. I made a set of stairs out of boxes that held the book she was the star of— The Chronicles of Zee & Zoey – The Journey of the Extraordinary Ordinary—my first book and the reason for so much good in my life, so that she could get up and down from the bed more easily. I put a low-sided litter box in the room and a special water bowl for her that I filled with fresh water several times a day.

She loved our time together. I could feel it. I am not a doctor or scientist by any means, so clearly this is speculative, but I know in my heart of hearts that the energy of my body pressed next to hers as she lay next to me infused her with life. She glowed any time I came into the room, and I lived for those moments, too. As the days went by, she became frailer, but she was still Zoey. She still had that spirit, but now her kittens were taking care of her. At night, I would bring her to the couch with Dan and me to watch TV with the other cats. Rather than her grooming them, they would groom her. And Kizmet, bless his little heart. He was with Zoey and me during nearly every second of the journey. He knew she was transitioning to another dimension, and he stayed in bed with her, close to her side, providing quiet warmth and reassurance. He’s done the same for me. Much as I try to be strong, I can’t stop the tears. He is by my side, a valiant soldier protecting his charge with enduring love and patience.

This was near the end for Zoey. Kizmet was watching over her protectively, as usual.

Toward the very end, it was as if Zoey was trying to absorb it all and say goodbye to everyone on her terms. Despite her difficulty walking, she insisted on coming into the dining room to snuggle on the ottoman with her babies. She also insisted on sitting on my lap while I worked remotely. I stroked her silky fur, embedding the feeling into my memory. We also gave her fluids to replenish her body, a body that was always slim and trim to begin with, that was now wasting away to skin and bones. As a final gesture, we took her outside to lie at her favorite spot in the tiki. She always adored the warm sun on her body, sharing the space with Peanut, and it was one last gift for her.

On the ottoman, one last time, with her beloved babies – Mia, Peanut, and Rolz.

Giving her some fresh air in the tiki she loved so much.

Sleeping on my lap while I worked from home.

But that’s how it is when you are a pet guardian. Both life and death are your responsibility. It’s an enormous emotional commitment, but it is almost always in our hands when we must make the difficult decision to let them go. We don’t want to make the call, so often we live in false hope and prolong the inevitable. How do you say goodbye when they still look up at you? When they are still that beautiful little creature that has been a part of your life for as long as you can remember? But you must let them go, despite how desperately it hurts, because they may be suffering. I prayed for God to take Zoey peacefully, but it just seemed to be getting worse. Was she in pain? Were we being selfish for not letting go sooner? It’s a cruel burden to bear, but ultimately, we decided it was time, and I made an appointment for Thursday, November 20.

Kizmet on the couch with Zoey, November 19. This would be her last morning with us.

I don’t know how I even made the call. I uttered some words, then, numb, I hung up. The rest of everything that day was excruciating: “this is going to be the last time this, the last time that.” Zoey spent one last night on the couch with all of us. We celebrated her life together and loved her as best we could. She was surrounded by so much respect and adoration. As the night wound down, I took her into the leopard room to sleep with her next to my side one last time. I could feel her shutting down and transcending into her final journey. This is what I had wanted. I did not want to put her in the car the next day and drive her to the vet, where that would be her last memory.

But I certainly did not want her to die. I did not want that at all. I wanted her with me forever. It is such an emotional struggle. In the long run, it was how it was meant to be. She went on her terms, with me holding her in my arms. It was a difficult moment, but it was also beautiful. My pain was raw, deep, and feral. She was always my girl, so I should have been with her, and I was. My life will never be the same. None of our lives will be the same. The kittens have been looking for her, and the house is deafeningly quiet. At the same time, I am rich for the memories and time shared with her. She is everywhere. Everywhere I look, there is a piece of her. How could something that tiny be everywhere, but now, nowhere? I love you, my precious girl. Fly free until we meet again.