Milo

He was red, too big, and had exactly 27 freckles on his nose. There was a never-ending battle in his big clumsy heart between an ardent desire to be really good, and an intense urge that left our couches all chewed up and our breakables broken. Had he been able to speak human, I have no doubt that he would have made his way to the confession booth every week, promising to do his penance and to find the strength to be good.

Milo came to us from the shelter as a huge little kitten, with his brother Jasper. Together they turned our house into a tornado of love and broken furniture. I remember the first time he realized that my arms would always be a safe haven with nothing to offer but simple love. His eyes locked on mine, and he and I bonded as few others have ever bonded with me. The one time he made an escape to the backyard of our house, he immediately became spooked, jumped several fences, and then hid, frozen, behind a neighbor’s shed. When I found him and brought him home, he was so heavy that I could barely carry him in my arms, while he kept shoving his face into my armpit, all the while telling me about the terrifying dragons he had had to sleigh while out in the wild.

Years later, Milo got sick. My husband and I had already broken up, my daughter was away at college, and I was alone, holding Milo through the night, while his angel of a brother Jasper watched over the two of us. Milo lasted a few months, and then the vet came to my house to put Milo to sleep. I held him until the end, telling him to just look into my eyes. When he died, I erupted in a long scream of curses and pleas for forgiveness. He made a nest in my heart and never left. He sits by my side right now, watching me type this story. Love comes in all shapes and colors and leaves its mark, like a scar that hurts and makes us soar all at the same time.