This morning wasn’t supposed to end this way.

We had plans.

The weather had finally given us a break from the relentless summer heat. The sky was gray, the air was cooler, and there was just enough mist to make it feel like one of those quiet Missouri mornings that invite you outside. We planned to spend the morning at the farmers market, fill our bags with fresh vegetables, support local vendors, and come home to make a big pot of soup for the weekend.

Instead, we found ourselves saying goodbye to Loki.

I still don’t know exactly when it happened. We only know that sometime between six and eight o’clock this morning, our sweet tuxedo cat quietly left us.

A few hours earlier, around four in the morning, he had been exactly who he always was. He followed Michael back to bed, insisted on a little affection, looked out the window for a while, and settled in beside him. There was nothing unusual about it. None of us had any reason to believe it would be one of our last ordinary moments with him.

We were barely awake when I heard something.

I couldn’t tell you what it was. Only that something was wrong, and that I was already afraid before I knew why.

I told the brown noise to shut off.

Hearing my voice was how Michael knew we were up.

He knocked on the bedroom door a moment later.

He couldn’t get the words out.

He had found Loki in his doorway.

Sometimes grief arrives before language does.

If you’ve been reading CherryCoBiz for a while, you’ve probably met Loki before.

You’ve certainly met his brother, Mydas.

Years ago, my husband and I never imagined we’d become “cat people.” In fact, I’m allergic to cats, and if you had told me back then that I’d someday be writing tributes to them, I probably would have laughed.

When we moved in with some of our closest friends years ago, two brothers named Mydas and Loki were already there to greet us. We didn’t adopt them.

In many ways, they adopted us.

Mydas eventually earned the nickname “Kung Foo Kitty” because of his lightning-fast paws and endless mischief. Loki never needed a nickname quite that elaborate.

Most days he was simply Loki Doki.

And if you’ve ever known a cat who loved with complete confidence, you’ll understand exactly who he was.

Moving into that house wasn’t easy for me.

It was one of the biggest adjustments of my adult life. My husband worked late into the evenings, and I often found myself sitting alone wondering if we’d made the right decision. Everything felt unfamiliar, and if I’m being honest, there were nights when I questioned whether I’d made a terrible mistake.

Then, almost every night around eleven o’clock, Loki would come find me.

He didn’t have to.

No one called him.

He’d simply appear, spend a little time with me, accept a few pets, and quietly keep me company before wandering off to resume whatever important cat business awaited him.

I don’t pretend to know what he was thinking.

I only know that those visits became part of my evenings, and they helped me through a season of life that was harder than I expected.

Looking back, Loki had a way of choosing his people.

He also had a remarkable way of demanding attention.

Loki loved loudly.

Around our house, we used to joke that he loved people aggressively. If he decided it was time for cuddles, then it was time for cuddles. If he wanted to lay on you, he did. If he decided you looked comfortable enough to become furniture, your opinion on the matter wasn’t especially important.

His favorite place in the world seemed to be resting with his head against Michael’s chest. There were times it honestly looked like he believed he was human.

Then there were the toys.

If Loki found one of his favorite toy mice at three o’clock in the morning, the entire household was going to know about it. He’d proudly carry it through the house while meowing at full volume as though he’d just completed the greatest hunt in feline history.

It was an alarm clock no one asked for.

We all knew exactly what the noise meant.

Another successful hunt.

At least, that’s what Loki wanted us to believe.

He was completely, unmistakably Loki.

He had a stubborn streak, too.

Years ago, while we still lived in Arizona, another gray cat wandered just a little too close to the house.

Loki didn’t appreciate that.

Before anyone really knew what was happening, he had crashed through a screen and introduced himself in the most territorial way possible. By the time it was over, there were tufts of gray fur floating around the yard and one very surprised neighborhood cat making a hasty retreat.

“Bad Kitty” has always been a term of endearment around here. Every one of our cats has earned it at one point or another.

Loki just earned it more thoroughly than most.

This past winter gave us something I’ll always treasure.

All of our cats were born in Arizona. They had watched snow through a window before, but none of them had ever stood in it.

Our little house in Springfield changed that.

When we had our first good snowfall, we opened the door and let anyone who was interested step outside for a few minutes.

Teeka wasn’t interested.

Indy cautiously investigated.

Loki, of course, wandered farther than everyone else.

He stood there looking around at this strange white world as though he intended to inspect every inch of it.

Looking back now, I’m just grateful he got to experience it.

Since this morning, I’ve found myself replaying little moments from the past couple of weeks.

Recently we kept finding Loki stretched out on the kitchen table.

That wasn’t something we allowed, so we’d gently move him and even put little blockades in place to discourage the habit.

A week or two ago he spent a couple of days sleeping in the same spot.

Then he got up.

Went back to normal.

Everything seemed fine.

I’ve caught myself wondering if those moments meant something.

Maybe they did.

Maybe they didn’t.

I think that’s part of loving someone after they’re gone.

You replay everything, hoping you’ll discover an answer that simply wasn’t available at the time.

What brings me peace is knowing something far more important.

He was loved.

Completely.

None of it had woken my son.

I had to knock on his door and tell him myself.

He didn’t say much.

He just got up and started getting ready.

A few minutes later, he walked out wearing a black blazer, tuxedo dress pants, a white shirt, and a black bow tie.

He wanted to honor a tuxedo cat.

I don’t think I’ll ever forget seeing him standing there.

Clyde found a box that fit him perfectly and gently lifted him inside.

Together we carried Loki to the veterinarian.

Together we said our goodbyes.

The farmers market was still there afterward.

My son decided to stay home.

The rest of us eventually went.

The GPS took us somewhere else entirely. I still don’t know why.

We ended up on back roads we’d never driven before. The fields were full and green, and in places the trees had grown together over the road until it felt like driving through a tunnel. There were old houses tucked so far back you’d never find them on purpose. The mist never burned off, and everything stayed soft and gray and quiet.

None of us said much.

Eventually we found the market.

We bought the vegetables we’d talked about the night before.

Tomorrow, I’ll probably make the soup we planned to make today.

And I know it won’t just remind me of fresh produce or local vendors.

It will remind me of today.

Love you, Loki Doki.

Thank you for every late-night cuddle.

Thank you for every little nibble that always meant, “Pay attention to me.”

Thank you for waking the whole house at three in the morning because everyone deserved to know you’d successfully hunted another toy mouse.

Thank you for protecting your home from imaginary invaders… and occasionally real ones.

Thank you for sitting with me when I wasn’t sure my new life would ever feel like home.

Thank you for your first winter.

Thank you for choosing all of us.

I hope you knew, every single day, that we chose you too.