Min

Min hid, at the beginning of her life with us. She was a three-month-old street kitten, and she cowered under a bed for days. The walls must have felt constricting: where were the plants and trees, the green and earthy places where she’d lived before, alone?

Min hid, at the end of her life. She was 12 years old, dying of kidney disease. Or maybe she wasn’t hiding: maybe just taking herself quietly and calmly away from the noise and smells of us, the house, the other cats. She curled up under plants and trees, in green and earthy places. We knew where some of the places were, but not all. Her secret ravine paths always led her home, though—even on her last morning, when she died in our garden in the sun, in the green, alone.

I’m so grateful for her love.