Until We Meet Again

The Quiet Grief of a Cat Named Atari

It has been two months since I last wrote, two months since I gave myself the space to breathe and reflect. Last June, I shared the news of our senior cat, Atari, passing away. It was a lot to process, and I found myself quietly grieving and healing, a process that takes time. To honor his memory, I decided to keep his Instagram account active, the one I created the day we adopted him in 2012. Posting his unposted photos and videos has become a source of comfort, a way to make the healing process a little easier.

I still find myself wondering if he's okay, and I'm still trying to understand why I didn't feel his presence after he passed. I've always been a believer in supernatural phenomena, and I truly believe something special happened on the day he left us. The air smelled of fresh flowers, an experience that's hard to explain but that I'm certain was his way of saying goodbye and thanking us. It had been years since I cried over the loss of a pet, but letting go of Atari was different. We had him for 13 years, and he was more than just a pet to my twin and me; he was family. Every family member, old and new, knew him. He was with us through all of life's moments, both good and bad. It's been two months now, and I find comfort in hoping he's in a better place, a place where he can be with my mom. I still wish for the day I'll see them both together in my dreams.

A Sudden Goodbye to Our Dog, Yumi

Just as we were beginning to heal, another heartbreak struck in July. Our senior dog, Yumi, passed away on the 9th. She had just celebrated her 14th birthday in April, a month that she shared with my twin, myself, and one of our other cats, Katsu. I had even baked her a birthday cake, not knowing it would be her last.

Yumi's passing was sudden and unexpected. She seemed so healthy for a 14-year-old dog, especially compared to Atari, who had frequent vet visits in his senior years. She was a small dog but so strong, a little bully to our bigger dog. Looking back, my siblings and I couldn't help but blame ourselves for not paying closer attention to the signs of her body weakening. We overlooked that she was a year older than Atari, believing her strength meant she was perfectly fine. At the end of June, I started to notice her heavy breathing. She was rushed to the vet on July 1st and confined for almost two days. Her blood work came back with terrible news. The doctor said she was anemic and had infections, and other tests pointed to a possible heart ailment and failing kidneys. My siblings and I remained hopeful for a miracle, but things took a turn for the worse. In the early hours of July 9th, Yumi passed away. She didn't even get to finish her medication.

It was a devastating blow, especially with Atari's passing only a month before. We had no choice but to accept that she couldn't fight anymore. We had her cremated, just like Atari, and it was incredibly difficult to say goodbye to a family member. I miss her deeply, just as I miss Atari. I have placed their urns together on our dirty kitchen cupboard, creating a resting place where we can still see them.

               Watch my vlog here ⬇️

           

The Unconditional Love of Family

In the end, our pets are truly family. Even in their passing, we must honor their lives with a decent memorial. Losing both of our senior pets has created a significant hole in our hearts, but knowing they are no longer in pain brings us a measure of peace. We may have considered them our pets, but to them, we were their entire world. They don't live as long as we do, and because of that, it's our responsibility to give them the best life possible.

Of Fur and Farewells

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A Return to Words

Hello again.

I promised myself I would keep this blog going—keep writing, keep documenting the little things that make up this big, messy life. But sometimes, life gets in the way. The past few weeks have been heavy, but not without light. In fact, last month brought us joy in the form of a new furmily member: a little black kitten we named Kohl.

Kohl came into our lives unexpectedly, as many good things do. He was a helpless kitten hiding under a neighbor’s car, scared and alone, with a pack of stray dogs roaming nearby. My sister and I didn’t think twice. We scooped him up and brought him to safety. We weren’t planning to adopt another cat—we already had five—but leaving him behind wasn’t an option.

A month has passed since that day, and Kohl has flourished in our care. He’s playful, curious, and adored by his new siblings—Skye, Finn, their mom Luna whom we adopted last year and Katsumi whom we also adopted in 2022. The family of 3 just celebrated their first adoptsary on May 9. It’s been a beautiful thing, watching our home expand with love.

But life, as always, has its way of balancing joy with sorrow.

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The Slow Goodbye

In the last two weeks of May, we noticed our beloved senior cat, Atari, was losing weight at an alarming rate. He was 13, and while he had slowed down over the years, this felt different. We brought him to the vet, and he was confined overnight. The next day, he was sent home—eating, drinking, seemingly stable.

But I could tell something wasn’t right. His right arm, where the IV was inserted, began to swell. Another vet visit. Another round of antibiotics. Still, he ate, still he drank. But the strength in his legs began to fade. Two days ago, he couldn’t stand on his own. He dragged himself to the litter box. He stopped eating. He stopped drinking.

Then came yesterday.

My sister called his name that morning, but he didn’t respond.

Atari was gone.

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The Cat Who Chose Us

Atari was more than a pet. He was a constant in our ever-changing lives, a witness to our grief, our growth, our love. He didn’t come from a shelter or a pet store. He chose us.

It was 2012. My twin sister and I were preparing for work when we heard a kitten crying outside. We opened the door, and there he was—a chubby ginger boy who rolled over on the floor like he already knew he belonged to us. He walked in and never left.

Our elder sister, hesitant about having a cat, was unsure at first. But even she couldn’t deny how special he was. We later found out he had belonged to our next-door neighbor. She found him by the highway and tied him outside her house with a ribbon so her dog wouldn’t hurt him. But Atari had other plans—he escaped and came straight to us.

When the neighbor saw him with us, she was relieved. She knew he had found the right home.

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Between Homes and Hearts

When we moved to a new apartment that didn’t allow pets, we left Atari in the care of our parents. It was a painful decision, but necessary. Thankfully, they lived nearby, and we visited often. Our mom, in particular, took care of him like her own child.

Then, in 2013, tragedy struck.

Our mother passed away suddenly. A family friend told us that just hours before, she and Atari were having a "fight"—he wouldn’t stop bugging her during dinner. Maybe he sensed something. Maybe animals really can smell death.

We moved back into our family home for a while. Life became quieter. And then, eventually, louder again. New jobs. A new house. New routines. But through it all, Atari remained—the one familiar thread tying our story together.

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 The Fighter

Years went by. Atari, ever the curious soul, remained an outdoor cat. But the world outside isn’t always kind. One day, he came home covered in dirt and blood with a severe tail injury. We rushed him to the vet, where his tail had to be amputated. It was horrifying—but he pulled through.

We had him neutered. Still, he wandered. Still, he fought. Eventually, after an incident with a neighbor, we made the decision to bring him indoors permanently. He adapted, gracefully aging into his role as the wise elder among a growing pride of cats.

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Love in Numbers

As Atari aged, we began to notice the subtle signs of time: slower movements, occasional digestive issues. We changed his diet, gave him more wet food, and surrounded him with love. But we sensed he needed a companion.

That’s when Katsumi, a spirited calico, came into our lives in 2022. And just like that, Atari found his spark again. He played, he cuddled, he thrived.

Then came Luna, Finn, and Skye—a stray cat family we welcomed in last year.

And finally, Kohl, our unexpected May rescue.

Even as our attention was split between them all, Atari remained our center. The wise one. The soul of the house.

He passed away in the early morning hours, quietly and peacefully.

Thirteen years of life. Our mother passed in 2013. I don’t believe in coincidences.

I believe they were soulmates.

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The Weight of Goodbye

We had Atari cremated, just like our mom. His ashes now sit beside our altar—a spirit who shaped our lives in ways no words can fully express.

The house feels different now. Quieter. A little emptier. Healing is a slow process, and I know it will take time. I still expect to see him lying in his favorite spots or hear his soft meows at night.

If you've never loved a pet, you may not understand. But losing one is like losing family.

Because they are family.

Atari wasn’t just a cat.

He was our history. Our joy. Our heartbreak. Our love.

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Until We Meet Again

I hope my mom was there, waiting for him at the edge of the rainbow bridge.

No more pain. No more sickness.

Just peace.

Goodbye, Atari.

Thank you for choosing us.

Watch my vlog here ⬇️

A Cozy Holiday to End a Challenging Year

As the final days of 2024 slipped away, I found myself embracing the holidays with quiet gratitude. It had been a challenging year, but the festive season brought a sense of warmth and renewal that I desperately needed.

Christmas was a visual delight in our home, with a purple, gold, and brown theme that added a unique elegance to our celebrations. The tree shimmered with these colors, and even the table decor matched perfectly, creating a cozy yet regal atmosphere.

Our buffet bar was the heart of our gatherings, lovingly decorated and filled with dishes I had prepared. This year, I tried out new vegan holiday recipes, and they were a delicious success.

My fur babies joined in the festivities, dressed up in adorable holiday outfits. They brought endless smiles and laughter, prancing around and stealing the spotlight. Their energy was contagious, and they truly felt like part of the family celebration.

The holidays were quiet and private, just how I like them. As an introvert, I cherished the moments spent at home with my family. There were no big parties, just the comfort of being surrounded by loved ones and enjoying the little things: laughter, music, and the twinkling lights on our tree.

However, not everything was perfect. A few days after Christmas, the cold weather got to me, and I fell ill. It was a reminder to slow down and take care of myself, something I often forget in the rush of life. Thankfully, I recovered just in time for New Year’s Eve.

On New Year’s Eve, we kept the traditions simple yet festive. We sang our hearts out during karaoke, lit firework sticks, and watched fireworks burst across the night sky from the comfort of home. We opened presents together, each gift a symbol of love and thoughtfulness.

As the clock struck midnight, I reflected on 2024. It had been a tough year, filled with challenges and lessons. But as I stood there with my family, my fur babies by my side, and the promise of a new year ahead, I couldn’t help but feel grateful.

2024 may have tested me, but it also reminded me of what truly matters—love, resilience, and the joy of being with those who make life meaningful. Here’s to 2025, a year I’m stepping into with hope, gratitude, and an open heart.