It’s funny how attached we become to animals. I’m sure there’s a very real psychology behind that concept that’s been explored well beyond anything I’m interested in. At the most basic level, our pets love us unconditionally and without judgment. Isn’t that more than enough of an explanation, really?

Tiffany, was the only pet I’ve lived with that actually judged me. She didn’t believe in unconditional love. She had a very specific set of conditions upon which she would love me, and I was nowhere near meeting any of them.

In fairness to her, we did get off to a rocky start. Tiffany was a joint purchase between my wife and a previous gentlemen caller. That cat was a strong reminder that another man had previously kissed my wife. As irrational as it sounds, I didn’t like that the idea that Tiffany was a product of some shared happy moment between my wife and this lout. On top of everything, Tiffany hated my dog. For whatever reason (which to this day I still fail to understand) she could not appreciate what a blessing it was to be living with a basset hound puppy in the market for a new best friend.

Honestly, it wasn’t until the last five of her seventeen years that Tiffany decided we could be friends. Maybe she relented a bit. Maybe after 12 years of making the wrong choices, I finally became subconsciously conditioned to meet her needs.

Whatever the case may be, it was heart-wrenching to say goodbye to her. Maybe the fact that she made me work so hard to be her friend made me appreciate her more than my “easy” pets. I’ve never known my wife without Tiffany in-tow. It’s not just that I lost a pet this weekend. I lost one of the millions of little details about my wife that make up why I love her. On top of that, I found myself incapable of protecting Angela from the pain of this loss. I can only endure it with her.

As I look down at my own cat, Scratch, I find it easy to dismiss any fear of one day parting ways with him. He’s so young that the idea of it seems absurd. I have plenty of time left with that sum’bitch. Kirby is another story, entirely. He’s eleven years old and already showing signs of breaking down. When I say that Kirby has been my friend for 11 years, I don’t mean that in a cute or ironic way. I mean it in a very genuine way makes you hesitate and feel stupid if you were to speak it aloud in a room of adults.

Tiffany was certainly not my cat. And by that I mean that you can never truly love someone else’s cat. Cat owners, you understand what I mean.

Despite that, I have a feeling it’s going to be as hard living without Tiffany as it was living with her.