Not quite a year ago, a small, fragile black cat appeared in my lifeāwild, quiet, and hurting. She had one eye clouded by infection and a frame so tiny it seemed a gust of wind could carry her away. I didnāt know her name yet, but I felt it instantly: she needed help. I began by doing the simplest thing I couldāoffering food.
That was the beginning of something unexpected and deeply meaningful.
She would linger nearby while I worked on projects outside. Always just close enough to watch me, but never close enough to touch. She was cautious, independent, and brave in her own way. Sheād vanish for days and Iād worryābut somehow she always found her way back. Sometimes Iād catch her curled under thick brush near the stream, in a safe place she had chosenāfar from traffic, people, and the aggressive strays I knew would harm her.
As fall gave way to winter, I knew she wouldnāt survive out there without help. I bought her a small cat house with a heated mat and placed it near the garage. She didnāt trust the garage muchāit was loud and enclosedābut she found the heated shelter, and I set up a camera to watch over her every night. I checked it constantly. Her survival had become a quiet mission in my life.
I named her Piraticaāa name that somehow fit her spirit. Tough, evasive, wild, and yet, soft in the way she let herself be near.
When a brutal cold snap hit, I worked tirelessly to get her into the garage. Finally, I did. And this time, I didnāt let her back out. She didnāt fight. She adjusted. The heating system kicked on, laundry machines roared, but she justā¦ stayed. And for the first time, she began to rest.
Spring came, and so did decisions. I knew she had to be fixedābut I also had to be sure she wasnāt pregnant, since we had another male stray in the garage at the time. We got him neutered, and we were just waiting. But then her eye flared up againāworse than everāalong with a respiratory infection. She was struggling to breathe. I could hear it.
I caught her. I got her to the vet. They cleaned her eye, gave her antibiotics, and sent us home. And she improved. For four days, she was energetic, eating, curious. I had hope. I thought weād turned a corner. I thought she was going to be okay.
Then one morning, everything changed.
She ate like normal. I left the garage. When I returned just an hour or so later, I found her upside down, clutching her little cat house, limp but still breathing. She didnāt run, didnāt fightājust looked at me. I scooped her up and we rushed to the emergency vet.
Thatās when I learned she had FIVāfeline HIV. And something had overwhelmed her immune system. Her bloodwork was catastrophic. She wasnāt coming back. After several hours of trying everything, we had to make the impossible decision to end her pain.
Iāve never cried like that. Iāve never felt that kind of loss.
It might sound strange to some, but caring for Piratica was one of the only things in my life I could control with certainty during that time. Making sure she was fed, warm, safeāit gave me purpose. It gave me connection. She never let me hold her until the very endā¦ but I held her when it mattered most.
Today, Piratica is buried in the garden corner where she used to first appearāwaiting quietly for food, attention, or just a presence. That place will always be Piraticaās Corner now. Itās sacred. Itās hers.
I miss her every single day.
She reminded me that healing isnāt always about fixing somethingāsometimes itās about simply being there, day after day, when no one else is. And loving without needing anything in return.
Rest easy, little pirate. You were more than a cat.
You were family.
ā¤ļøPiratica, I Will Remember and Love You Forever Baby Girl, I Promise! š¢
