Echo was more than a cat; she was the baby I never had. I've lost many furbabies to illness, or age, but never have had one murdered. The next door neighbors had been warned about letting their three dogs run at will; one of which a pitbull mix. Echo was attacked and killed in her own yard on a bright sunny spring day. I have never hated any animal, but I do now. He (they) tore such a whole in my heart and left a void that my family and I cannot fill. Our other furbabies, two other cats and two loving dogs feel it too. Her presence was so strong that the quiet only mocks me now. She came to me a small pile of fur, all black and an essence that demanded attention. Still reeling from past losses, I guarded her, never letting her out of my sight. By the time she turned one she was finally allowed to go with the others outside to play. How she loved to be outside! At two years old, she breaks her leg, gets a cast and complete pampering. When the cast comes off, there is an even stronger bond between us. She never misses an opportunity to show me her complete devotion. I never worried about her being outside; our dogs loved the cats, and all the other neighborhood dogs were leashed or in fenced yards. Then they moved in. The cats were never at peace as long as they have been here. Their dogs run into our yard and threaten me as I try to garden, or get in my car. We advise them we will use pepper spray. They do not listen, the dogs run still, and Echo is dead. Someone please tell me how to make sense of this.
Echo, I miss you so much. I look for you everywhere, even though I know that you'll never come back. Wait for me with the others gone before you. I love you.