My father walked into our brick house holding a pet carrier in November 2010, just a week or two before Thanksgiving, if I’m remembering correctly. My mother trailed in behind him and called for us kids. A ninth-grade Nate and his 9-year-old brother Noah opened our bedroom doors and trekked down the hall, surprised and excited to see the new Russian blue kitten with slicked-back gray fur hunkered in the carrier. My adult sister was already in the living room with my 10-month-old nephew Brayden, who didn’t seem to realize his grandparents had just brought home his new best friend.
Setting the carrier down, my dad unlocked and opened the cage door. We waited. After a minute or so, the 8-inch-tall kitten stepped onto the plank floor of our kitchen and explored the immediate area. The shelter we adopted him from had named him Frick, but my mom had rechristened him as Grayson, a name that paired with the adult cat we already owned, a medium-haired domestic mix with black fur named Gracie, who soon joined our welcoming party.
When Grayson saw Gracie, however, his slick fur instantly poofed up, and he arched his back to make himself look threatening, crab-walking sideways as he hissed. Gracie was neither impressed nor intimidated. She walked up to him, sniffed the feisty kitten, and then walked away, seemingly uninterested, though she kept her eye on him. My family giggled at Grayson’s attempts at being the top cat of the house.
Eventually, Gracie moved on, and Grayson indeed became the alpha of the home, but his meow was always bigger than his bite. Ultimately, that spoiled cat was a huge pushover. Over time, he became a foster cat-dad of sorts to the new kittens we brought him. Upon meeting a new kitten, he would spend two days putting them in their place with a hiss there and a bop to the head there to let them know who was boss, but then we’d come home to find him cuddling and obsessively grooming them shortly afterward. Dash. Moses. Phoebe. Moka. Oliver. He was a doting big brother to them all.
Grayson loved shredded cheese and applesauce—separately, of course, not mixed together. If a chair was available at the dinner table, he would often sit upright in it and observe like some distinguished gentleman. Whenever my family would gather around for a group photo, he would enter the room and find his own perch so that he, too, could look at the camera, as if he knew we were taking a family photo and that he was supposed to play his part, considering himself one of us.
I’m not sure whether Grayson thought that we were cats or that he was people, but he was something else.
He purred loudly and constantly. A single, gentle touch from one of us would send him vibrating. Heck, sometimes just looking him in the eye made him start extending his claws and making air biscuits. He just loved his family so much, and we loved him.
‘Thanks, Old Man’
Unfortunately, you may have noticed that I am talking about Grayson in the past tense. A week ago, our geriatric good boy passed away after complications due to age.
We are all shaken up. My mother was nigh-inconsolable for days. My brother, who currently lives with me, had a few silent sobs. My 16-year-old nephew Brayden, who likes to put on a cocky, tough exterior, dropped the veneer and shed tears. Barely a few months older than Grayson, Brayden had known this cat effectively his whole life. We have photos of them sleeping together from the time Brayden was still in a crib to just a few months ago when they napped together on the ottoman in the living room of my parents’ house.
No other family cat has ever been like Grayson, and no one after him will ever make us forget him. If you have ever had a long-lived family pet, I imagine you can relate to what I’m writing about here. If you haven’t, you likely empathize.
Grief is a strange thing. Just last month, I lost one of my grandmothers, and I subsequently drove 13 hours to Richmond, Indiana, to commiserate with family and to recall fond memories of my Grammie. When I learned that Grayson died, I jumped into the same coping mechanism—finding peace by embracing the positive feelings my memories give me. A week later, I miss Grayson, yes, but I am processing. A few hugs from people close to me have gone a long way in that regard.
As morose as it seems to find silver linings during moments of grief, I find comfort in knowing that in addition to the companionship Grayson gave while he was living, he continues to give me something even after his departure. Grieving isn’t an easy experience. As much as we may wish we could go through life with as few losses of loved ones as possible, we as people become more emotionally resilient with practice.
For anyone reading who may have lost a family member—human or otherwise—and is still in the grieving process, I want to say that you’ll overcome this moment. Remembering the ways they lived helps. Journaling helps, too, which is why I’m putting my thoughts into this editor’s note.
Because Grayson gave me so many reasons to love him, I grieve his loss. Because I’ve grieved his loss, the next time I have to grieve, I’ll be more prepared. I’ll still hurt. I’ll still cry. But I’ll know I’ll get through it, just like I know I’ll get through his and my Grammie’s recent losses.
To Grayson, I have one more thing to say: Thanks, old man. I’ll remember you always.
This MFP Voices opinion essay reflects the personal opinion of its author(s). The column does not necessarily represent the views of the Mississippi Free Press, its staff or board members. To submit an opinion for the MFP Voices section, send up to 1,200 words and sources fact-checking the included information to voices@mississippifreepress.org. We welcome a wide variety of viewpoints.
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