My little Evita, I miss you so much. Since you went away, I feel like a piece of me has died along with you.



I find myself looking for you when I enter a room. I expect you to saunter around the corner at any moment. I keep finding your fur on my clothes when I'm in public, and I have to stifle the urge to cry. My stomach aches when I think about you.



I miss your little paws on my chest two minutes after I crawl into bed. I miss your tail in my face at sunrise reminding me to feed you. I remember your pretty green eyes, box-shaped muzzle, rabbit-soft coat, and disproportionately short tail.



I have a dozen habits formed from seven years of living with you such as opening the front door carefully, looking before I sit down, moving cautiously in the dark, adjusting the A/C before leaving for work, and keeping the light-colored laundry at the bottom of the basket so you don't get black hairs on my dress shirts.



When the vet diagnosed you as being FLV+, she said most cats with the virus only make it to 2. You went on to amaze every doctor you've had by living a full, happy eight years. You were so strong.



I take comfort knowing that we provided the best possible life for you, but there is a cat-shaped hole in my heart that will take a long, long time to heal.



You were a good cat. Your mother and I will never forget you.