11/27/2025
I found the kitten on an ordinary workday, though nothing about him felt ordinary. He had been left behind, tiny and cold, and there was no way I could walk past him. I took him home, held him close to warm him up, fed him with a syringe, and showed my two sons how to care for him while I was gone. We named him Kirby, hoping the name would be the start of a better life for him.
For about a week he lived with us, shy at first and then slowly relaxing, settling in like he finally had a place. On Sunday evening he curled up on my stomach while the boys and I watched a movie. His breathing was soft and steady, and the moment felt simple and perfect in the way moments do when you do not yet realize you will miss them.
The next day, after a long shift, I came home and saw him lying too still in his little bed. When I picked him up, he tried to give the smallest meow, barely a sound at all. Then, right there in my hands, he took his last breaths. The grief hit fast and hard, the same kind I remembered from losing pets as a kid. My sons saw him and understood, and the three of us cried together over this tiny kitten we had come to love so much.
The next morning we buried Kirby in the backyard. My boys placed little charms beside him, simple gifts they wanted him to have. We said goodbye and promised we would remember him.
Even though he was not with us long, somehow he left a lasting mark, the kind only a small and fragile life can leave behind. Love you to bits, Kirby.
