It’s just a cat.

That was my thought when we brought Purrl home from the Grant County Animal Outreach shelter. She was a short haired black cat, about three or four months old, with green eyes.

I picked her out as a companion for my wife’s cat. They could keep each other company when we were away from home. Simple as that. Nothing more.

She is just a cat.

Nearly two years later, I signed the paperwork to have her euthanized. We came home from a Christmas trip to find her sick. Within a week, her kidneys failed. She was in pain. I let her go. I couldn’t watch her suffer. It was too cruel.

She was just a cat.

Not any more.

I never had a pet. Most of the dogs my parents had bonded with my mother. When sharing pets with roommates, they bonded with the roommate and one decided my best friend’s dad was her pet human. Purrl was the first pet to bond with me. She picked me.

I hadn’t realized how many routines we had until I came home from the vet without her. Purrl learned to hear the inflection in my voice when I asked her a question. She would always answer. When getting dressed, she would jump on the bed and wait to be petted, purring loudly. Purrl would appear to be in complete bliss when I carried her to bed every night.

She was my cat.

Purrl followed me from room to room just to be near me. She would curl up on a chair near the computer when I was working. Then she had her spot on the couch, right behind my head, to keep close. She just purred when near me. Purrl would fetch the plastic rings from water jugs when I threw them. There were times when I could get her to carry my socks into the bedroom. When I came home, she would be sitting and waiting for me to come in from the garage.

She was my dog.

Part of me wants to write how I was stoic about her death. I wasn’t. I felt grief. I was heartbroken. Even today, I really don’t want to talk about her. Part of me thinks it is silly to be emotional about her.

It’s just a cat.

I knew she was suffering. She couldn’t open her mouth and was suffering severe dehydration because she couldn’t drink water. Our vet, Terry Prickett at Animal World Veterinary Clinic, was kind and caring. She gave us the options and facts. Purrl was going to die. It was a matter of time. It was a matter of how much we could stand her suffering to keep her with us. I wasn’t as strong as I thought I would be. I couldn’t take her pain away any other way. I still feel guilty.

She was much more than just a cat.

The truth is Purrl became part of my life. She was a companion, a little furry friend. Purrl gave me great moments of happiness and pride. I understand why people think of pets as family members. She was happy to just be with me. Purrl never needed money. She never asked for favors. The little bit of attention I could afford her was enough to make her happy and she let me know it. I had never really seen a cat in a state of bliss before, but there is no other way to describe it. It is touching when an animal or anyone is so happy just to be with you. Her happiness was unconditional.

Beyond the tears and heartache, having a pet was worth it. She gave me so much in exchange for food, water, a litter box and a bit of attention. She helped me to understand why people think of pets as family.

It still hurts.

I miss her.

She was my cat.

Bill Stevenson is the Columbia Basin Herald managing editor. He dedicates this column to everyone who has lost a pet.