Tabby

⚠️ Trigger Warning:
This story contains themes of pet loss and grief. It may be upsetting to readers who have experienced the death of a beloved animal companion.

In loving memory of two little fluff balls that stole my heart during my childhood and teenage years. And for my late Nan, who always reminded me that cats were once worshipped as gods — and they’ve never forgotten it. Love and miss you all. I’ll see you again one day. Mwah. 💜🐾

Why do we have pets? Why do we invite such joy into our lives, only to face the pain of losing them?
They steal our hearts, fill our homes with laughter, and show us what unconditional love truly feels like — and then one day, they’re gone. But somehow, even in their absence, they never really leave. Their paws leave prints that last forever.

It was Mary’s 13th birthday.
As she stepped off the school bus, her mind raced with excitement — and a little sadness. Not one person at school had wished her a happy birthday, but she tried not to dwell on it. There were rumours that birthday bumps were still a thing: being picked up and slammed down by your classmates, one bump for every year. Thankfully, Mary was pretty sure no one could lift her.

But none of that mattered when she stepped through the front door and saw it: a litter tray on the floor. That was odd — Mary’s family didn’t have pets. Before she could ask, her mum called her into the living room.

There stood her mum, smiling, holding a tiny, impossibly fluffy kitten in her arms. Mary’s heart swelled.

“She’s yours,” her mum said softly. “We picked her up today — we wanted it to be a surprise. She doesn’t have a name yet.”

“Tabby!” Mary blurted out. It felt perfect. The kitten meowed as if to approve.

From that moment, Tabby became Mary’s shadow. Her partner in crime. Her therapist, pillow, alarm clock, and best friend. Tabby followed her to the bus stop, waited for her every afternoon, and seemed to know when Mary was sad before she even said a word. One stroke of her fur could pull Mary out of her darkest mood.

She was no angel though. If breakfast was late, Mary would get a slap to the face or a scratch to the leg. If she dared sleep in, Tabby would launch herself at her like a furry alarm clock. And if Mary tossed and turned in bed too much, Tabby made her disapproval known — usually with a growl and a paw to the face. She ruled the house, and Mary was happy to serve her.

Tabby had a diva-like presence, full of personality. When Mary confided in her — about bullies, heartbreak, or just life — Tabby never interrupted. She simply curled up, purred, and listened.

There were funny moments too. Like the time Tabby brought a live bird into the house, kicking off an hour-long rescue mission. Or when she dropped a still-living mouse at Mary’s mum’s feet, sending her into full meltdown. But those were their memories, their shared chaos — and Mary looked forward to many more years of them.

Then one day, Tabby wasn’t there.

As Mary got off the school bus, her heart dropped. For the first time since Tabby was a kitten, she wasn’t waiting.

Mary ran home, panic rising in her chest. She burst through the front door, calling for Tabby — but there was no sound. No meow. No paws skittering down the hallway. She found her mum sitting on the sofa, red-eyed and pale.

“I’m so sorry,” her mum whispered, walking toward her and pulling her into a hug.

“Mum? Where’s Tabby?” Mary asked, already knowing the answer.

Her mum’s voice cracked. “She was hit by a delivery van this morning. A woman saw it happen — the driver didn’t stop. I don’t think he even knew he hit her. The woman took her to the vets. They scanned her chip and called me. They tried everything, but… her injuries were too much.”

It didn’t feel real. Tabby had never crossed the road. She always stayed on the pavement — the furthest she ever went was the bus stop. Why would she run into the road? Her mum said maybe she chased a bird. Maybe something spooked her. But none of it made sense. None of it made the pain go away.

Mary sobbed. Her heart cracked in a way she didn’t know was possible. How could someone just hit her and drive away? She wasn’t just a cat. She was everything.

“Do you want to see her?” her mum asked gently.

Mary nodded, unable to speak.

She followed her mum into the kitchen, where Tabby lay wrapped in a purple blanket on her bed — the one she rarely used. Mary could only see her tiny face. She looked like she was sleeping.

“Can I hold her?” she whispered.

“Of course,” her mum said.

Mary picked her up carefully. She was cold and stiff. But Mary didn’t care. She needed one last cuddle. She kissed her head and silently begged for the kind of miracle you see in films — the moment they wake up. But this was real life. And in real life, Tabby didn’t move.

Mary’s dad came in, holding back his emotions. He led her into the garden where they buried Tabby under the pear tree she used to climb. He made a small wooden cross to mark her grave.

In the weeks that followed, the smallest things would set Mary off. Pears in the supermarket. Cat food adverts. Random memes on Facebook. At night, she’d wake up and reach for Tabby, only to remember she was gone. It physically hurt.

People said things like, “You can always get another one,” or “She was just a cat.” But Tabby wasn’t just anything.

She was Mary’s best friend. Part of the family. Her safe space.

Tabby taught her that love doesn’t need words. That comfort can come from a heartbeat beside your own. That even in silence, you can feel completely understood.

She was only with Mary for three years — but those years gave her a lifetime’s worth of love.

Tabby could have ended up with anyone. But somehow, the universe chose Mary. And for that, she will always be grateful.

As she turns the page to the next chapter of her life, Mary knows her story isn’t over yet. Tabby is always with her, in memory and heart. But when her final chapter arrives — when she writes her last sentence and closes her book — she knows what will come next.

She’ll look up, and Tabby will be there. Waiting. Probably meowing impatiently and tapping her paw, as if to say, “You’re late.”

© 2025 Louise C Kay. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.