The day we put our strikingly handsome, gentle Romeo to sleep was the first day that our seasonal fall rains arrived and fell quietly on our parched California landscape. A gentle breeze blew, the air was noticeably cooler, and the wind chime next to the cottage played a melodic, lyrical melody. I sat quietly with my Romeo, our senses soaking it all in. It was also the first day Romeo could no longer walk without falling. His back legs had finally succumbed to his worsening neurological disease that had grown debilitating for him, and he no longer could walk without stumbling. Romeo was such a proud, dignified, and noble cat, and at about 20 years old now, his body was finally failing him. He lay still on my lap, enveloped inside a maroon-red soft fleece blanket, enjoying the stroke of my hand slowly massaging him from head to tail—over and over again for the last two hours of his life. Together, we listened to the noisy chirping of songbirds coming and going from the birdfeeder hanging in front of Romeo’s cottage window. The glass-paned door was wide open to Romeo’s cottage, so he could feel the cool breeze of fall slipping gently through the door, and enjoy the expressive musical songbirds, and hear the soothing rain. Romeo has lived in our backyard cottage for 15 years with a variety of fellow rescue cats that were very compatible with him—all very submissive to Romeo’s alpha male personality. Today, we just tried to be present with what was, to accept it, and enjoy these precious last moments.

Romeo loved soaking up the warmth of the sun on the pathway to his cottage