The Little King Between the Keyboard and My Heart
He was a mouthy, demanding little beast.
He was a mouthy, demanding little beast.
Pablo — all ten pounds of fur and sharp opinions — liked to perch between me and the keyboard. Not beside it. Not within a polite paw’s length. But right in the middle, where my hands were supposed to be.
I can’t count the times I tried to slide the laptop closer, or shift him a few inches to the side. He’d give me that slow, disdainful glance, then settle down like a tiny emperor on a velvet throne, claiming the space as his own
.
He was a lot of work. The hairballs that ended up on the floor. The kibble that found its way between my bare toes. The “I must be fed RIGHT NOW” yowls at the crack of dawn. The moments when he refused to acknowledge me until he wanted something, and then acted as if I’d been put on this earth for that sole purpose.
But somehow — for reasons I can’t explain except that it’s how love works — every exasperation came wrapped in belonging. Every purr came wrapped in trust. Every demand came wrapped in this unspoken agreement that we were in this together.
And then, one night, he was gone. Just like that.
I expected heartbreak. What I didn’t expect was the strange quiet that came with it. The space where kibble used to crunch under my feet. The spot where a warm body used to block my hands. The silence where a voice used to boss its way into the room.
Today, for the first time in a long while, my keyboard is just… a keyboard. My floor is just… a floor. My space is just mine. It feels both liberating and heartbreaking, like saying goodbye to a tiny chapter and a very long conversation.
If this feels like a story about a cat, it is. But it’s also a story about belonging to someone and being belonged to. About loving a little beast that shaped a part of your heart.
The world is loud right now. Wars, tensions, heartbreaks too big for any one person to carry. But this morning, in a quiet room, it came down to a tiny thing that taught me a very big lesson:
What we love doesn’t have to be perfect. What we lose doesn’t have to be gone.
Thank you, Mr. Pablo, for making a space for yourself — between my hands, between my words, and deep within my heart.
Run free, little one. You were worth every moment.
I am so sorry for your loss. I have felt the same way five times in the last five years. We have lost five dogs in the past five years. They were all seniors who were rescues and they all had their own special places in our hearts. Because of their ages, all of them had serious health issues during the last part of their lives. Providing care for them was exhausting. When they were at a point of suffering, it was gut wrenching to let them go, but a relief to know they were at peace. It was hard being back at home and seeing their beds, toys and food bowls. Their absence created a huge void, but it also created a great peace after we realized that they had given us unconditional love and beautiful memories of our time together.