Life hasn't been the same since Chef died. I try to numb the pain and heartbreak I feel the sadness and the feelings of grief, mourning, and anger that he is gone but some days it is just unbearable. The image of Chef's huge, gray, plump body sitting in the kitchen by his food and water tray awaiting for me to wake up in the morning, his vibrant green eyes lighting up as I stroll into the kitchen, meowing excitedly away as he knows it is breakfast time. I used to love waking up to this, knowing that Chef was waiting for me. He would always be there. The apartment feels almost empty even though it's quite full now without Chef here. I constantly imagine he was here with me, imagine him meowing, and fantasize him in my arms. I think back to his last few days here on Earth with Frank and I, and I can't help but feel regret and guilt about not tending to him better, not spending more time with him, because now I would do anything to just get five last minutes with him. I knew that Chef was dying, and I guess my heart and especially mind couldn't handle that. I guess maybe subconsciously I was training myself to say goodbye, to let go. All along we knew Chef was sick, and I kind of had a sinking feeling all along that he wasn't just fat, but maybe it was actually something serious. I was in denial, and Frank definitely was too. I just didn't want to believe what everyone else who met Chef and saw him thought; it could be a thyroid problem, or cancer. After all, he was only five, otherwise healthy, with the most amazing personality I had ever found in a cat. He was pretty much like a dog. He loved people and being around people, and he loved everyone. He was a traveling cat; Frank and I brought him with us back and forth from New York to Rhode Island, and he loved visiting both our families. He always settled right in each house as if it was his own, it was the quite amazing actually; he was tolerant and was in no way shape or form skittish. I felt extremely connected and bonded to Chef. I found him on Craigslist shortly after Frank and I moved to Rhode Island; in an extremely creative and enticing add. It was written in the cat's point of view, but told how his owner, an old woman, had died and her immediate family could not care for him. They were boarding him at a local veterinary hospital. I liked what I had read, and after exchanging multiple texts with the woman handling him, Frank and I decided to go visit him at the veterinary clinic, Four Paws, on a cold November night.

I remember Chef being shy and not very friendly when we first met him. He hid behind a plant and sat down. He didn't seem very interested in us, and my heart sank because I was determined to get him to like me. Frank didn't seem too fond of Chef, so I remember crouching down by where he was hiding and talking to him soothingly and petting and stroking him. He gave me lots of head-butts and was almost instantly affectionate towards me. I guess I had an intuition about him. Something inside me just told me that I couldn't leave that animal hospital without him. I told Frank he was the one, and we left Four Paws with a five year old fat cat named Chef, who was guaranteed to be in good health, except for the cut on his paw that he was on antibiotics for, and a pain med, but we were reassured that after he finished the medications, he would be fine. Well, Four Paws weren't just wrong, they lied.

Chef lived for six months. When we took him to be put down, which was probably one of the most painful and traumatic days of my young life, it was suddenly discovered that he had FIP, an incurable, fatal feline disease; but yet when we took him home, he was cleared on a clean bill of health. He had been suffering from FIP most likely his whole life, alone with having seizures. His old family had him on the medication Tramadol, which was given to us when we adopted him, but it was NOT disclosed that the cat had had seizures and was on medication to control them. While Chef was alive, if you can believe it, despite what you are reading, he didn't act like a sickly cat. He was a happy, personable cat that loved to eat, especially fine dining and Meow Mix. Chef loved his wet food, which was for sure. Chef was almost like a little dog. He loved attention, he loved being pet and cuddled, and he especially loved lying on my lap. He was a big head-butter. He was so extremely affectionate. I know that Chef loved me because he was always by my side, always watching out for me it seemed; he always blinked at me, always slow blinks, and I always blinked at him back. That was our way of saying "I love you." Chef was there for me through some extremely dark, hard times; times of my life where I was in such a deep depression I just wanted to die. There were days I didn't want to get out of bed for anything, not even myself, but it was CHEF that got me to force myself to get out of bed to feed him and make sure he got attention for the day. Chef saved my life. He came into my life at a time when I needed him the most, and I guess it was just fate that brought us together. I'll never understand why we had to be torn apart. I'll never get the images of Chef being sedated, being prepared to be euthanized, out of my head, staring into his eyes and trying to comfort him, trying not to hysterically break out sobbing while I told him that I loved him while he slowly faded. Some days I still can't even believe he's gone. I know he was just a cat, but I can't seem to let him go. I know that wherever Chef is, (I hope to think that his soul was reincarnated) I just know that he's watching over me somehow. I would like to think he can feel my mourning for him and he's out there somewhere. Deep in my heart, I know he's at peace, no longer suffering, no longer pain, happy like he once was when we first got him. Maybe he's even with his original owner in their own little heaven. I know Chef is gone, and he is never coming back. I am angry. I feel Four Paws did more than just lie to us, but they broke our hearts, and traumatized me. Not to mention, Chef wasn't the only animal they misdiagnosed, mistreated, and eventually killed. I only wish that his original owners could have gotten him treatment somewhere else. Maybe he still would have been alive right now. The more depressed and hopeless I become, the more I dwell on Chef's death. Somebody said to me, "Well, he was dead when you got him!" and I can't get those horrible, cruel, heartbreaking words out of my mind. He was already dead. No, he wasn't. He was sick, and even though he had a disease that was incurable, I still feel guilt. I feel guilt because I still wonder, what if. What if Chef would have had proper treatment and medication? Would he still be here with us? Those close to me tell me I need to move on, that I need to stop dwelling on Chef and his death, but they just don't understand the bond and connection I had with him; he was like a child to me, a family member. How can you love an animal so fucking much and then just 'move on' like they never existed? I know that people all mourn and grieve differently, but unfortunately for me, there won't be any just 'letting go' or 'moving on.' Every day I think of Chef, and every day I miss him even more, and wish even more that he was still here with me. Chef was my world. I loved him more than life itself. The moment that vet uttered the words, "put down" that day, a huge piece of me died inside. I knew things would never be the same again with Chef the cat. And since he's been gone, even after getting a kitten, my life is nothing but sadness, and I know Chef wouldn't want it to be that way; I believe he came into my life for a reason, to save me from myself, and I've got to try and stay strong, even though he's gone.

Chef, your memory will carry on. You will forever be in my mind, and in my heart. No cat can or will ever replace you, or ever compare to the amazing personality you had. You saved my life, and even though you're gone now, at peace, you are still my inspiration to try and stay strong on keep on living.

RIP CHEF THE CAT MAY 8TH, 2013.