Liam died three days before Valentine's Day, and he left a hole in my heart.
Liam arrived in the last weeks of 2012. I don't remember the exact date; it was November, maybe.
He was a big, young, beautiful cat. A mackerel black tabby, they call them. He was very confident and playful from the beginning. He had big paws, and long whiskers. He was very long, as long as a guitar. He was born probably in mid-August of the previous year. We used to celebrate his birthday the eighth of August.
Liam used to belong to a friend. She was the one who named him “Liam”. We first met him at her place, in a gathering with friends. Liam already liked to mix with people. During his life he would like to sit on a chair, and watch, and listen whenever friends would come home.
Some months after that party, our friend moved to Scotland and left the cat with us for a couple weeks, while she settled in the new country. Those weeks turned to months, and she decided that the cat had already forgotten her, so she put him up for adoption. At that time Liam was already well settled. I already loved him, and I cried a lot at the idea of losing him. And so, we adopted him.
And there he became a part of our family.
From the very start he liked to sleep with us. At first he would sleep at our feet, trying to catch our toes when we moved under the blankets. He liked to hunt us. He would hide under the headboard of the bed and try to hit us in the head as we slept.
He would play ninja, walking slowly from the other side of the corridor, stopping and playing innocent when we looked, until he reached the door. Then he would hide next to the door frame, and jump up to our faces, grabbing the door and giving us a scare. And then, after his mischief was done, he would run away, all his hairs on point. It was so fun.
We had different roles with him. My girlfriend would be that sort of sister to him. She would play with him. He would sit on a big cardboard box, and she would drag him over the living room, singing a song from an old kids' TV show in Spain. (“¡Vamos de paseo, pi, pi, pi! ¡En un coche feo, pi, pi, pi!”). She would buy the best toys and treats for him, and she would try to hug him all the time.
I was sort of aloof, less playful, but I would make him room at the sofa or the bed with us so he could cuddle. He got more and more confident, and he would sleep with me. He liked to lie on his left side, curled up, and I would be the big spoon to him. We watched lots of movies and shows like this, and we slept lots of naps, both of us snoring very loudly. We would stay like this for hours; I would scratch his belly, and he would knead my arm.
I guess I was kind of his mom. I provided him with warmth and comfort, and food, and water, and peace. We gave each other company and companionship and love.
In the mornings he would wake up and go to his spot at the windows of the living room. In our first appartment he would look at the doves on the roof of an old building next to ours. In the new appartment he'd look out of the balcony, where the birds would fly past him, or perch on the handrail, and he would cackle at them. Meanwhile I would get ready for work. As I was putting on my shoes, he would cry from the living room and those days I had to go with him and pet him so he wouldn't feel that I was abandoning him. He really missed me when I was away for some days. After COVID, when I could work from home, he would sit next to me during the working hours. I had put a chair next to mine, and a bed next to my laptop, so he could inspire me. He would sit in front of the camera during the meetings. He became famous with my colleagues around the world.
He kept me company during my depressions. He was there during the COVID lockdowns, which I spent alone at home with him. He's been there during my darkest hours. He's saved my life, simply by being there with me.
As he got older, he starting having health problems. He first had some autoimmune issues. We had to remove a big wart from one of his feet, because he would bite it and bleed. He was so big that he needed a dog-sized cone; even with the biggest cone for cats he would reach his foot.
Later he had some growths in his mouth, which we also had to surgically remove and analyze. It was not a tumour, luckily. It seemed to be some weird reaction.
It was right after the COVID lockdowns that we noticed that he was losing quite some weight. And then we learned that he had kidney disease. We've been treating him since then, almost six years ago. Even with all the medication and the treatments, he's spent this six years quite happy.
Finally, the disease progressed. He stopped eating, and he would drink and drink and drink and still be thirsty. He began to hide well deep inside his carrier bag, in pain.
His last day on this world, however, he found the strength to come to my chair and call me. He jumped on my lap, and we spoke for some minutes. He purred and purred. And I kissed him and he bumped his head against my face. And then he returned to his carrier bag.
He went peacefully. And the day, which had been sunny and warm, became gray and dark, and the night was windy and stormy.
The appartment still has his presence all over it. All the small things and habits, the nooks and crannies he used to like; that door we left open for him to pass; his bed next to the window so he could watch the birds fly; the creaking door of the cupboard where we kept his medicines, which prompted him to hide.
He was the best cat, and we miss him sorely.
He was my best friend.
He would cry when I was putting on my shoes to go away, and I had to get back for a moment and console him, until he would go to the window to watch the birds.
Now I am crying because he's gone away.