In the late afternoon of Sunday, May 28, 2025, I lost Mila Gray, who I had only had for two months, seven years, feeling like we knew each other for an eternity. Mila died suddenly, about a minute after having a seizure.
In 2022, a street cat I knew for a handful of years made eye contact with me somewhere else. Mila. Or Mila Gray, if you will use her full dramatic name. I wished for her that God, the universe, whatever you believe in, could give her to me.
Why was a gorgeous Korat cat made homeless? Who knows. She was eating outside of a cafe where I have known the restauranteur since I was 17 years old. A cat fan himself, he always instructs his team to feed the strays and lost souls who need nourishment.
Mila never looked at me when my dogs were alive. Without a dog, her sadness looked like, “I need a best friend. Will you take me in?” And a love was born.
She played with her fave toys, giant rats and a cat wheel with several tiers. Every morning, she selected a Fancy Feast seafood can of her choice. Our invented language had words she came up with, like “Owwwww oh wow!” She made me laugh like no human did.
We had a rhythm. Our own language of glances, soft paw taps, and those perfect, curled-up moments where time stood still. She was there when no one else was. She believed in me without needing proof.
Mila made every place feel like home. And now, everything feels quieter. Stranger. Like the sun is shining, but I forgot how to feel its warmth.
Losing a cat is never “just a cat.”
I don’t know how to end this. Maybe there is no ending. Mila lives on forever.