When I first saw Rusty at the age of five, there was no comprehension that by taking on the commitment of loving this cat, this life, this soul, that I may have to one day make the decision to say goodbye and help him leave the world. I always prayed that Rusty would go when he found it appropriate to go, or when he was ready.  He let me know when he was ready, and I helped him make the transition from life to death, instead. It was the hardest decision I've ever made, but Rusty passed while in my arms in the sunshine on my bed, his favorite place to be.



Eric once told me that Rusty lived every single day for me. My mother said I was his god. But no one acknowledged enough what he was to me: yes, he was a cat, but he was the one incredible and consistent thing in my life since I can remember. I don't remember life without Rusty. Losing him has been like losing a person.  He was who I came home to.



I know I am lucky. I was blessed by Rusty's presence for over twenty years. How amazing is that? And how lucky am I to have been his person for so long? As far as I'm concerned, I got two full cat lifetimes of time with Rusty. 



Rusty was my best friend. He was my confidant, my lovebug, and my little man. He wore cat clothes.  He had different meows for different emotions. He and I communicated like I've never been able to communicate with another human. He was orange with a white locket on his throat. He loved spaghetti-o's, cheerios, cheese, and mushy friskies food. He hated riding in the car, and would protest the first ten minutes of riding. He had his own pet stroller that we would take walks with together. He was the most photogenic being I've ever seen. He bent his forehead down to accept and ask for kisses. When I'd come home from a trip, he'd follow me around and meow until I just sat with him in my arms for awhile to make up for lost time. He greeted me every morning. I held him like a baby. He'd grab for my face with his paw to bring me closer to him. He used to lick my Barbies' hair. The evening sunset on his fur made it have brilliant rust and bluish colors. He had a 'tone of voice'. His purr was ever present. He told me when it was time to say goodbye. He shook hands on command. He loved to eat grass outside. He gravitated toward all sunshine. He hated baths. He would wrinkle up his whiskers and lip when they would bump against something. He had one backwards whisker on his right side that pointed outwards. He would pucker his top lip if he was purring really hard and was working on mustering up a meow. He had one black freckle right on the inside of the left side of his nose. He had a thing for eating dry dog food. He wore miniature hats. When I'd come into a room and wake him, he'd see me and let out a huge happy ‘mrrarrr’. He took medicine very well. He loved me unconditionally. 



I miss him. I miss seeing him, petting him, touching his soft orange fur. Since he's been gone, he's visited me in my dreams 3 times. 3 amazing times, and I remember the feeling of being able to hold him again. 



I'm here to say that I survived his death - something i had 20 years of fears about, thinking I'd never be able to go on...but I have, and I have 20 years of photos to remember his incredible soul with. I have a bit of his ashes in a necklace around my neck, so he will always and forever be close to my heart - right where he belongs.  I’ll love and miss him forever.