Cleo

Okay, I’m gonna try to write this without losing it. Cleo wasn’t even supposed to be my cat. I wasn’t a “cat person.” I didn’t even like cats growing up. Then one night, like 2 years ago, she showed up on my back door a stormy night. Just this tiny soaked black furball screaming like she owned the place. I opened the door and she came in like she’d been there forever. She wasn’t sweet. She had serious attitude. She’d knock my water over if I was late feeding her. She had opinions about what shows I watched, if I laughed too loud, she’d leave the room like I embarrassed her. But when I had a panic attack at 2 a.m., she was there. When I got dumped and couldn’t eat for two days, she nudged me till I got up and made something. She sat on my laptop during Zoom meetings, stared directly into the camera like she was my manager. I didn’t realise how much space she took up until it was empty. The windowsill, her spot on the back of the couch, the sound of her little collar bell. Now there’s silence. I keep checking the floor when I get out of bed, expecting her there. Cleo passed fast. No warning. Just didn’t wake up. I sat on the floor and just sobbed. I didn’t choose her. She chose me. And I’m so damn grateful she did. She made me laugh, made me feel less alone and taught me that “cat person” isn’t about cats. It’s about connection. I miss you, Cleo. Thank you for crashing into my life and making it better.