It’s been almost a week now since we said goodbye to you, and I’m honestly surprised at how much more sadness I’m feeling for you than I felt for your Mama when we said goodbye to her. I mean, I’m not gonna lie, she loved hanging out with me way more than you ever wanted to.

It was different with you, though. So, soooo different.

You made me earn your love.

Man, did I have to work hard for it.

For almost 13 years.

And even towards the end, I could never be sure that what you felt for me was actually love and not just … tolerance.

Maybe that’s why I miss you so much. I worked so hard to win you over, and when I finally did — or finally got close — you went away.

Looking back over the memories we’ve collected, I noticed how few photos you were actually in during the first few years that we knew each other. And whenever we did get a pic of you, you were always with Marley and Mama. Mama clung to us, but you clung to Mama.

It wasn’t until we said goodbye to first Marley, then Mama that you started coming around. I guess you had to? You lost your only two snuggle companions. You had to find someone new.

And you certainly did with Melissa. Over the next five-and-a-half years that you were by yourself, you found a new favorite spot between Melissa’s legs (hey, that’s one of my favorite spots, too).

I’ll never forgot the joy in Melissa’s eyes when she finally was able to pick you up and hold you in her arms … and you were (mostly) okay with it. It took over a decade, but it finally happened.

I remember the first time I got to hold you as well. You didn’t seem quite as comfortable with me as you did with Melissa. But hey, I was happy to take what I could get.

Over the last few years, you became such a different cat with us. I called you our grumpy old man, but I always noticed how content you had become around Melissa. The two of you had your little routine down, and it warmed my heart to see you willingly — maybe even eagerly? — walk up to her, twice a day, every single day, to get your little pokes of insulin. It could not have been comfortable, but you took it so well.

Part of me wanted to believe that your incessant meows were calls for attention and affection, not complaints about the world.

You were such a tough little cat, too. As Melissa so beautifully pointed out, you must have had 11 lives. You came so close so many times, and yet, every time you fought back. Who would have thought that such an anxious little cat would claw onto life for so long?

But we could tell you were getting older and less comfortable. We knew the day was approaching when we would have to say goodbye. We had many conversations about it. We were as ready as we could be … I suppose.

It still happened so suddenly, though. One day, we thought you just had a little kitty cold. We got you some meds and thought you would get better.

But you didn’t.

And you started looking so tired and exhausted. And so, we decided that we wanted to make you comfortable. We knew it was time to make the call.

That entire afternoon, you looked so worn down, but also at peace with us. Several times, on your own accord, you came up to us, to be close to us. Of course, several times, on your own accord, you got up and left, to wander around the living room, drink some water, and sniff on a snack.

But every time, you came right back. You even jumped on the couch — your last leap ever — and found a spot to settle down between us.

And that was the spot you where ended up spending your last moments. With us.

When the doctor arrived, when I led her to where you were … you just continued to lie there, barely moving, barely even noticing her, not even voicing the tiniest complaint about her presence (something you never failed to do when strangers were around).

In that instant, I knew.

I knew you were ready to say goodbye to us.

I’d like to believe that we made your last moments comfortable for you. I’d like to believe that you heard us telling you how good of a boy you were. I’d like to believe that you felt safe with us, that you knew we would never stop taking care of you. I’d like to believe that your last memory was of being with both of us.

And I’d like to believe that you found contentment there.

Goodbye, Biscuit. We love you and miss you so much.