I try to remember that you never blamed me. You never felt like I let you down. You knew I was trying my best to be a good father. You were so patient and trusting, always forgiving, always willing to start over and give every change in routine a chance.

I was never a perfect father, and there were times it seemed like you were more worried about what I was going through than what we were having to endure. I'll never know why. I wish I'd involved myself more, intervened more, even when I worried I was being overbearing. You were only ever a little girl, so intelligent, so independent, but still just a child.

I try to not think about what went wrong, because then it becomes an endless spiral of what I should have done differently. We used to go on walks, fall asleep together, watch storms together, and then at some point, all of that changed. I think I stopped taking you on walks after you tested positive for FIV. I was so scared that something outside would hurt you again. Then something from indoors found you anyway, and I wasn't watching closely enough to catch it before it tore into you.

I still cry sometimes, even when I'm thinking about the good memories. I know you only really saw me cry once, and it scared you, not because you were afraid for yourself, but because your dad was in a state you'd never seen before. I promise you, I'll be okay.

When you felt overwhelmed, you would run and hide in a cupboard or a cabinet, or in the back of my closet. There's not a cupboard large enough for me to hide in when I feel this broken. So I hold the little wooden box of what's left of you and curl up with it on my bed, trying to remember that you never blamed me. You never believed for a moment that I wasn't trying my best.

You're not in pain anymore. That's what I try to remember.

You've returned to Lord Buer now. We'll find each other again someday, and when we do, I'll sweep you up and embrace you in the way you alway patiently tolerated with the smallest little beep of complaint. We'll play with all your favorite kinds of toys, we'll lean our bodies against each other and spend quiet time together, and then we'll fall asleep together, like we did when life was better for both of us.

Someone asked me if I was planning to adopt again already. I don't think I'm ready for that. I don't know when I will be. I know there are so many cats out there in need of homes, just like you were, but I don't know when I'll be ready for fatherhood again. I trust that Lord Buer will know when the time is right to send a new familiar, and that you and he both will merge our paths when the time comes.

I love you, Bípbíp.

Na schledanou.