The Cat Who Wasn’t Mine… But Was
Grief doesn’t follow ownership papers.
Hey Golden Whiskers family,
The apartment is quiet this morning.
Not unusually quiet. Niko and Milo are here doing their usual things—Milo sitting like a king in the window and Niko wandering around like he’s inspecting the perimeter of the apartment. But there’s still a heaviness in the air that’s been hanging around for the past couple of weeks.
It’s grief.
On March 1st, my best friend Lori’s cat Remi passed away.
And even though Remi wasn’t technically my cat, I’ve been grieving her deeply.
Grief is funny like that. It doesn’t follow ownership papers.
I first met Remi through Lori when she was living in Colorado.
Lori was renting the lower level of a home in Evergreen, tucked away in the mountains. The homeowners had a cat—Remi—and later brought home a puppy. As puppies tend to do, the puppy had a lot of energy. Remi, being a dignified cat with standards, decided she preferred a quieter environment.
So she started wandering downstairs.
And that’s where Lori was.
What began as casual visits slowly turned into something deeper. Remi would come downstairs and curl up with Lori. They’d spend time outside together. Lori lived in a peaceful mountain setting, so Remi could wander a bit and explore while Lori kept a watchful eye.
They bonded long before Remi officially became Lori’s cat.
When the homeowners eventually decided to move away, they asked Lori a question.
“Do you want to take Remi with you?”
From what I understand, Lori’s response was something along the lines of:
“I’m not leaving without her.”
And just like that, Remi moved across the country to Tennessee.
When Lori settled into her apartment here in Knoxville, Remi became the center of her world the way cats tend to do.
If you’ve ever lived with a cat, you know how it happens.
You pick your furniture with them in mind.
You choose your apartment layout based on the best window views.
You create little routines together that quietly shape your days.
Remi loved being outside. Lori’s apartment had a lot of green space, and Remi would sit by the door and politely—but persistently—request outdoor time.
Sometimes that request happened at 4:00 in the morning.
Remi would sit there and meow until Lori opened the door.
Cats are very good at getting what they want.
Because Lori and I are close, I saw Remi a lot.
I was the official cat sitter whenever Lori left town. But even when Lori was home, I saw Remi regularly because I was always over there.
And Remi had a routine when I arrived.
She would run to the door to greet me.
Every time.
There’s something about that greeting that sticks with you. A cat choosing to acknowledge you like that. It makes you feel like part of the family.
Over time, I fell in love with Remi.
I always told her she was the most beautiful cat in the whole world. And she really was stunning. But more than that, she had this gentle presence about her.
Lori used to sing to her.
Not just casually humming, either. She would fully sing You Are My Sunshine to Remi.
Lori will tell you she doesn’t have a great singing voice.
Remi never seemed to mind.
Over the past couple of months, Remi’s health started to decline.
During that time, I found myself over at Lori’s place almost every day helping out.
Giving medications.
Checking on Remi.
Just being there.
And those visits deepened the bond even more.
When you care for an animal during their final stretch of life, something shifts. You become more aware of every moment.
Every purr.
Every slow blink.
Every time they curl up next to you.
You start to understand how fragile and precious those moments are.
On March 1st, we took Remi to the University of Tennessee Veterinary Hospital.
I was there with Lori when we said goodbye.
That was important to me.
Lori had been there when I had to say goodbye to Nomar. And when I had to say goodbye to Mia.
When Mia passed away, my apartment suddenly became very quiet.
Too quiet.
I remember feeling scared to be alone in that silence.
So I slept on Lori’s sofa.
For three and a half months.
And during that time, Remi was there.
She would curl up next to me or wander through the room, just doing her cat thing. And somehow that presence helped.
Animals do that.
They heal us quietly without even realizing it.
Now the roles are reversed.
Lori has spent a few nights at my place recently.
She takes the bed. I take the sofa.
Because going back to an apartment that was chosen with Remi in mind—an apartment that suddenly feels empty—is incredibly hard.
The silence can feel overwhelming.
But there’s a little comfort here.
Niko and Milo have been doing what cats do best.
Just existing.
Milo will curl up nearby.
Niko will wander over and inspect Lori like he’s checking on her.
And in those small moments, you can feel the healing starting to happen.
One thing I’ve learned through losing Nomar, Mia, and now grieving Remi is that grief doesn’t follow neat categories.
You don’t have to “own” the animal to feel their loss.
If they were part of your life, part of your routine, part of your heart… the grief is real.
Remi may have been Lori’s cat.
But the love she created reached far beyond one person.
That’s the quiet magic animals have.
They weave themselves into our lives in ways we don’t fully understand until they’re gone.
And even then, they’re never really gone.
They stay in the routines we shared.
The stories we tell.
The memories that show up unexpectedly and make us smile… or cry… or both.
Rest easy, sweet Remi.
You were deeply loved.
And you always will be. 🐾
Beautiful. I can relate to grieving other people's animal companions. So sorry for both of you. It is the hardest thing.