06/08/2026
Casper was the first animal I hand raised and bottle fed. He was a day old when he came to me so he never got the immunity and strength that his mother's milk would have given him.
He was a delicate baby, my Casper. Every few days, he'd start fading. Puppies and kittens need to be fed every two hours. So I'd stay up through the night, watching Shameless on my tablet while feeding him.
On the nights he'd start fading, I'd lay next to his carton on the bathroom floor, drifting in and out of sleep. Scared to go to bed in case he'd die while I was away.
And boy did he love me back. He loved me with a completeness that I think few humans get to experience in this life. Even on his last night, nearly a year after he came to me, he lay on my bed staring at me with intense adoration.
He died because of a routine neutering surgery but, more accurately, because of the incompetence of his vet. In the weeks after, I used to think it was such a waste. All those sleepless nights, moving through the days like an exhausted zombie. What was the point of all that when he didn't even make it to a year?
I know now of course, what the point was. It was all the puppies and kittens that came after him. Every time I get out of bed to prepare milk for an animal, I think of my Casper. Of everything he taught me and how much he loved me.
In 16 days, it will be two years since he died. It's a broody time for me, this time of the year. He hangs over my shoulder, watching me as I go about life with a hole the shape of him in my heart. I feel a heightened awareness of him. Like he's here, just beyond my reach.
I wonder how long I'll carry him with me. Lying in bed when I'm 90, immobile and senile. I wonder if even then he will come to me randomly, in waves of grief and regret.