"Nothing can truly be taken from us. There is nothing to lose. Inner peace begins when we stop saying of things, 'I have lost him" and instead we say, "He has been returned to where he came from." –Epictetus

Born in 2001, adopted from the Santa Fe Animal Shelter, and named for the gruff but loveable boss on The Mary Tyler Moore Show, Mister Grant appeared—during his younger years—as though perhaps we’d misnamed him. He had spunk. And his human TV namesake hated spunk. He raced joyfully along the tops of the adobe walls of Santa Fe, alongside his older sister, Mary. He played hide-and-seek with his human companions, he stopped often throughout his life to smell the roses (and hollyhocks), he chirped and meowed happily while skipping across fresh layers of snow and sun-kissed patios, and he cuddled lovingly—sometimes insistently—with both other cats and people.

He was crazy about ice cream, and cheese. Mister Grant was, at heart, an observer. He could stare at us adoringly, at times uncomfortably—especially during Fernando’s and my more intimate moments together—for a seeming eternity. He meowed in an astonishing range of pitches, his sounds indicative of approval, annoyance, curiosity, judgment, cheer.

He developed strong friendships with many over the years, in part, because I—his primary human—traveled frequently for work and left him and his siblings in the care of others. During our years in Oregon (2007–2016), he came into the life of our now close friend Molly, whom I’d hired early on to care for him during my extended times away from home. She immediately fell in love with him and insisted that he reside with her and her family whenever I left town—about 40 to 50 percent of the time. She refused payment, and in effect, became his (and eventually his siblings’) co-parent. Cats tend to crave stability, but Mister Grant accepted the many changes to his routine, throughout his entire life, with unfailing grace and good humor.

When I was at home, Mister Grant still regularly initiated new friendships. He had a long history of sneaking into nearby homes and once taught a neighbor’s indoor cat how to escape (out through an upstairs window, across a narrow railing, onto a high branch, and down a tree). The two of them became inseparable accomplices during his Santa Fe years. For the rest of his long, wonderful life, the many people he encountered continued to fall in love with his wise, gentle, and funny demeanor.

We helped Mister Grant to die peacefully today, June 4. He had recently turned 18. His dad Fernando was with him at the end, as was our close friend (and his tío) Jesús, and our neighbors and good friends, Elizabeth and Ramón. I was far away physically, as so often has been the case throughout his life, on a work trip, but I stayed with him in spirit and with Fernando through an ongoing series of messages, photos, and phone calls. When I departed on my current trip to California on Saturday, I said my goodbyes knowing that he quite likely only had a short amount of time left.

Fernando brought Mister Grant home from the hospital the day I left so that he could be comfortable and loved at home during his final days. The veteranian suggested an intensive medication regimen for a couple of days to see if Mister Grant’s failing kidneys might resume their function, as they had a couple of years earlier during a similar situation. Every hour on the hour, for 40 straight hours, Fernando injected fluids into Mister Grant’s system.

These heroic efforts helped, but Mister Grant never regained his appetite, and following a new blood test yesterday, the results showed only very limited improvement. At best, he might continue on a little longer, but only with a constant battery of injections and pills, and only then if he regained his appetite. Last night, Fernando and I talked it over, and we made the difficult decision to let him go.

On the afternoon of his passing, Fernando sent me this update: “Going to hop into the shower, eat a little, and then head over to the hospital with Jesús, Elizabeth, and Ramón. We all sat around him upstairs for maybe an hour and a half, and told stories about him, what an intelligent sweetheart he is, how much he’s enjoyed living here in Coyoacán…”

It was a fittingly Mexican celebration of a little cat’s life in a culture that has long maintained a compassionate, practical, and even humorous understanding and acceptance of death. Fernando and I have already discussed creating an ofrenda this fall during Dia de los Muertos, in honor of our dear friend, a big-hearted but—as he grew older—sometimes curmudgeonly creature whom we refered to variously as El Señor, Piglet, Gollum, Little Lord Fauntleroy, Kermit, El Anciano, and Old Man.

Adopting cats, dogs, and most other pets requires a certain suspension of disbelief. We know, deep down, from the first day that we spend bonding with our new four-legged friend, that we will likely outlive him. But as the months and years pass, we gradually suspend our knowledge of the inevitable parting that will follow. If we lacked the ability to compartmentalize our understanding of pet mortality, many of us would simply stop adopting pets. Watching, and in many cases participating in, their deaths is painful. But what could be more profoundly rewarding than caring for another living being, and partaking in a relationship that’s so deeply meaningful for both people and their animal companions?

Nobody gets out alive. While we’re here, loving others—even in the face of unavoidable, eventual loss—seems not so much an option as an existential requirement.

The relationship between Fernando and Mister Grant began inauspiciously. I had been single and had lived alone for the five years before I met Fernando in 2013, and Mister Grant had become unused to my devoting a lot of attention upon anybody else. Fernando was wary of cats in general and quickly sensed Mister Grant's disapproval. Following one of the first nights that my new boyfriend stayed over in my apartment, after showering that morning and readying to leave for work, Fernando returned to the bedroom to kiss me goodbye. Somewhat to his horror, he walked in to discover me still sound sleep, with Mister Grant digging his paws and nails rhythmically into my flesh, sucking on my neck like a vampire (a habit of his from kittenhood that would continue to the very end of his life). Sensing the presence of his new rival, Mister Grant turned his head back slowly toward Fernando, squinted at him defiantly, and resumed his suckling and kneading.

Slowly but surely, Fernando and Mister Grant came to accept and, ultimately, adore one another. Fernando moved in permanently and became, perhaps against his better judgment, a devoted cat-daddy to Mister Grant and his brothers, Parker and Elliott. Always a civilized animal who avoided drama, Mister Grant supported the two of us loyally, and became flustered only on the very rare occasions that Fernando and I ever became flustered with each other. During these moments, when we occasionally raised our voices, Mister Grant immediately ran between us and meowed loudly and persistently to draw our attention. The result: we paused—we often laughed.

We’re going to miss his peacemaking skills, but I’ve also learned from this funny little cat that it’s always helpful to step back and take a deep breath when I’m upset. Every challenge is easier to overcome when you’re calm.

Although clearly not a fighter, Mister Grant wrestled often, and always good-naturedly, with his feline brothers, despite his small size and consistently losing these mock skirmishes. In 2008, a year after I'd moved to Portland with Mister Grant, I began to sense how much he missed Mary, whom I’d left behind with Michael, my previous partner in New Mexico. So I adopted a friend for him, a rolly, long-haired cat with similar texudo coloring named Parker. Within minutes of my introducing Parker to the household, Mister Grant engaged in a spirited series of playful chases and tumbles. There were no hisses or yowls, just cheerful acrobatics. They would remain forever close.

Eventually, Michael and I decided it would be best for Mary, now near the end of her life, to come live with me and the boys Oregon. Upon her arrival, the three of them became a surprisingly close-knit unit, despite the old girl's general disdain for boyish roughhousing. (Mister Grant has always had a soft spot for ladies, human, feline, and even canine). When Mary passed on (also at age 18) in 2011, I adopted a tiny kitten named Elliott, and the spirited camaraderie among brothers continued.

It was almost exactly six years later, on Mister Grant's 16th birthday, that we moved to Mexico City, into a house directly across the street from the avowed cat-fancier Frida Kahlo. After years of only limited balcony time in Portland, Mister Grant was reintroduced to 24-hour indoor-outdoor access to a large and secure patio and garden abloom with tangerine trees, climbing vines, and colorful flowers. He spent his final two years cuddling with us on our laps and in our bed, lounging blissfully in the sun or moonlight amid the grounds, and once again breaking into the homes of our immediate neighbors. He became a constant house guest of the owners of our property, Ramón and Elizabeth, who continued to spoil and pamper him until the last moment of his life.

He was the first of our three cats to master climbing our metal industrial staircase, with its wide grates. This isn’t surprising, and he was determined to be with us as much as possible. He followed me around constantly and persistently his entire life, and then Fernando as well. When I lived in Santa Fe, he accompanied me on my daily drive to and walk through the post office. The vast majority of the days that I worked from home, he sat in a bed on my desk, on my lap, or on a chair next to me. When I rented a moving truck and drove from Albuquerque to Portland, he sat first beside me on the front seat and soon after decided he would be happy only if he lay between my feet (and the brake and accelerator pedals).

He accepted my constant traveling, albeit adopting a grumpy expression each time I packed my bags. Prior to adopting him and Mary, I resisted having pets because I traveled too much. Finally, I decided it was better to give a cat (and then two cats, and then three) a good, loving home—even if I would be away much of the time—than not. I made it a priority to find the best possible cat care that I could when I traveled. And even as I sit here writing about Mister Grant’s final moments from a bland hotel room 2,000 miles away, I’m grateful—with absolutely no reservations—that I have these cats in my life. I’m grateful that Fernando will join me soon on this trip, and that we’ll return home in about 10 days to Parker and Elliott, two very special and happy cats who also very much love and need us. And I’m grateful that if and when we decide the time is right, we have the means to welcome another cat into the household. We’re thinking, this time, a little girl. We think there’s probably a bit too much male energy in our home.

We, the living, will continue with the business of living. And the dead will live on in our memories.

Earlier this year, Fernando surprised me for my 50th birthday by commissioning an illustration of Mister Grant from our dear friend Vanessa. To help inspire her, Fernando described our cat's wry, resolutely dignified, sometimes officious, and unfailingly elegant personality, and he asked her to portray him as he might appear as a person (Fernando and I always joked that we envisioned him as a British noble with a powdered wig). She captured him perfectly. I love it. It’s the best gift ever.

His final illness was relatively sudden and brief, and the efforts of Ramón, Elizabeth, Jesús, and especially Fernando—his arch-nemesis-turned-best-friend—resulted in a peaceful and comfortable final few days. I was able to make a short video phone call and say goodbye, and Mister Grant perked up momentarily when I spoke to him, and then again after I whistled the same jingle that I've been using to call him home since he was a kitten. He will be missed.