Marlowe came to us by way of an adoption event at the Petco at Union Square. Stig and I had been there for an hour, playing with all the cats, when he arrived, late. Yowling as the woman who had been fostering him struggled to pull him out of his carrier, I somehow knew immediately that he was our guy. He was undeniably handsome, something everyone who came into our house remarked on. His tortoiseshell markings and magnificent whiskers made him look much more refined than the street cat he once was. The first few months he hid from us, then slowly opened up. Oona was a baby then and he would sneak into her crib, or sprawl across the bed with his beautiful marbled belly pointed temptingly up, daring you to pet it (never a good idea, despite the inviting pose). When we moved to Mexico he spent his days outside, draped across the top of our fence in the sun, and his nights hunting the geckos in our house to near extinction. In his later years, he became sweeter, at least with me. The kids began to call him my boyfriend for the way we cuddled, with him always next to but never actually on me. Marlowe had no shortage of dignity and part of that was ensuring we knew he was no lap cat. But he did spend his nights in a particular spot at the foot of my bed, where recently he slept more and more soundly. When he developed diabetes this past fall we became the kind of pet owners I never expected to be and gave him twice daily insulin shots (which it turns out is not as bad as it sounds). Since they’re magic, cats can heal themselves and go into diabetic remission, which we hoped would happen. Unfortunately it didn’t, and when he stopped eating and drinking we made the terrible choice to give him the only thing we could still give him, a good end. I have lost a cat once before, one who died suddenly in my 20s. I experienced the same thing then as today, which is that I couldn’t stop crying. With so much loss this winter, this spring, maybe I’m crying for all of that too. But maybe I’m crying because losing a pet is a very pure and simple kind of grief - not complicated, no dynamics to unpack, no regret. Just a very good friend who I will dearly and daily miss.