From the moment you walked into my life -- full of confidence even though you were no bigger than my hand -- I knew you were special. You weren't just a kitten. You were a bold, funny, affectionate, curious soul with so much life packed into a fierce little body.

You made everything more alive. You didn't just play -- you hunted wand toys, ripped the balls off cat towers, and chased your beloved Ziggy like a little panther. You'd growl over your captured prey and proudly trot around with it dangling from your mouth, ringing bells announcing your triumph. The way you needed to play fetch -- with hair ties, spring toys, anything you could find -- it made even the quietest evenings feel joyful.

You were my little shadow. You followed me, climbed into laundry baskets, sat on clean clothes, and made biscuits with those unintentionally sharp little claws while I folded. You begged for belly rubs, leaned into head scratchies, and wrapped your tail around me like you were trying to hold me still for love. You insisted on joining me in the bathroom like it was your sacred duty. And when you purred, lying on my chest, it felt like the whole world was humming and everything was right in the world.

I remember the way your ears -- too big for your tiny head -- twitched when you heard your name. The way you meowed in your sleep, or gave soft kisses, or got startled by the wind lifting the outdoor carpet. You lived so fully. You didn't just climb the headboard -- you skated across it, even if one time you accidentally sprayed me with your butt glands mid-zoomie. (I forgive you. It was weirdly hilarious.)

You and Ziggy were a perfect match -- playing, cuddling, grooming each other's ears, looking out windows together, watching snow fall in Baltimore like two old souls. You adored her. You looked up to her. And yet, you were always the little instigator -- stalking, pouncing, reminding her (and me) that you were still the fierce little hunter.

Ringo, losing you broke me. I don't know how to say this because I still can't believe you're gone. You were only two years old -- we were supposed to have so much more time. The house feels so quiet now without your soft paws, your curious eyes, and your comforting presence. I keep expecting to see you in your favorite spot or feel you curl up beside me.

You were more than a pet. You were a little soul I loved with everything I had. In your short life, you brought me joy, laughter, and comfort that I'll never forget. I hope you knew, every day, how much I loved you.

On July 6th, it felt like the world collapsed. Seeing you in pain, scared, and unable to move broke me in ways I can't explain. I wanted to save you -- with everything in me, I wanted to fix it. But I couldn't. And I hate that.

I made the choice to let you go, and it haunts me even though I know it was the kindest thing I could do. You didn't deserve to suffer. Letting you go was the last gift I could give you -- even though it shattered me.

I feel guilty because I loved you so deeply. I wish I could have done more. But deep down, I hope you felt safe and loved, even at the end.

Thank you for every moment you gave me. Thank you for trusting me, for making me smile, and for being my little companion. You mattered so much. You still do. And I will carry you with me always.

The guilt hurts. The silence hurts. The space you filled -- in every corner of my home and every part of my heart -- feels so vast now. But I want you to know this: you were so loved. You mattered. You brought light, laughter, chaos, and comfort in ways you'll never know.

I miss your paws catching me as I walked by. I miss your toy-carrying, curtain-pouncing, tail-wrapping craziness. I miss my Dingo, my little penguin cat, my fierce and gentle boy.

Thank you for everything you gave me. I would choose you a thousand times again.
I love you always.

Forever your person,
Kristin