Some time has passed. Over the past two years, I deleted my social media, keeping only this website because whenever I enter galleries, they ask if there's any way people can contact me. I am an intensely private person, and the older I get, the more I want my life to simply be mine. To disappear whenever I want to, to treasure the moments I've experienced, to enjoy my solitude, and to heal.

 

I lost Maverick this year. I barely speak about it because I view losing him as a grief I don't want to let go of. It is a private pain that I refuse to turn into a conversation, a passing topic for people to move on from ten seconds later. Out of respect, I keep his name to myself. I don't like getting close to people. I am sociable enough, but I value my solitude and peace. My cats and my art keep me sane, so losing Mav... I had no idea how I got through it. I had a gallery the week I lost him, and since it was February, the theme was love. I painted him, Koba, and a portrait of myself. I love my art, my cats, and of course, I love myself. But it was hard seeing him on the gallery walls, receiving compliments about him while he was at home struggling to breathe.

 

I lost him on February 15th. I remember taking him outside, laying out a picnic blanket, and watching the sunset as he breathed in the late afternoon air. I remember thinking that because of that moment, I would always appreciate the breeze, the gentle air filling my lungs. It's wild how we take simple pleasures for granted. Funny how a cat became the best Valentine I've ever had.

 

He was a cat, and not a lot of people have sympathy or empathy for that kind of loss. I went back to work, and I often stood on the sidelines to gather my thoughts. The night he passed, my job had a show featuring a man known for his violin. I stood there thinking about how quickly life passes and how determined I was to be good to myself. If I could let go of a bond I'd had for fourteen years, I could do anything. I promised myself that I would continue working on myself and be kind to myself, especially after this loss.

 

Naturally, as someone who didn't want to open up about losing him, I turned to my pens, my brushes, my paints, and my canvases. At midnight on my birthday, I welcomed my new age with a painting of a memory. It is why I love art so much. In reality, I mourn a fourteen-year companion who traveled with me through many homes and eventually across state lines, but on canvas, he's still there. My wildcat who made painting so much fun. He'd curl up on my lap while I played with colors, and I'd laugh as he tried to swat at my brushes.

 

I started with an underpainting of transparent brown oxide, smearing it across the canvas to capture the warmth I wanted the painting to convey.

 

I used reference photos of my cats and myself, focusing on washes of transparent paint. I added touches of permanent rose to the skin. My favorite color is pink, and I wanted this painting to portray all the things that make my heart feel warm and safe

 

 

Koba was added next to Maverick's. He truly is quite difficult to paint at times due to his black fur. I mixed titanium white to produce gray, and I wanted to capture the derpy look he often has. 

 

 

It felt like therapy, this day. I was completely submerged in my own world, my brain pulling references from things that made me feel warmth.

When Maverick was euthanized, I chose my own bed, opting for home euthanasia. I told him to run as the needle was inserted—just run, outrun all the bad things in the world. Pain, lung cancer, all the things trying to bring you down. I told him that when we reunite, we would watch the sunset together. I wanted him to pass in his favorite spot, and in the end, he passed at the foot of my bed, in my arms.

I am a woman of my word. When I received his ashes, I drove to watch the sunset by the river, pulling the convertible top down. I held the wooden box containing his ashes, unable to believe my fourteen-year-old companion was in there. I hugged the box, watched the sunset, and breathed in the air.

I remember the veterinarian contacting me afterward through email. She thanked me for reminding her why she chose this profession in the first place. She told me she had met countless people throughout her career, but very few had ever stopped to acknowledge the weight she carried or commend her for her bravery. That even in my own grief, I found a moment to extend kindness to someone whose burden often goes unseen. She shared that she had also lost a cat to lung cancer, and that watching me find the strength to let go of a creature I loved so deeply had affected her. She said it was painful to witness, yet somehow rewarding—a reminder that love can endure even in the moment of goodbye.

I remember looking at his lifeless body resting on my bed. The room felt impossibly still. Yet even in death, he was beautiful. 

A true wildcat. The softness of his fur, the familiar shape of his face, the quiet peace that had settled over him—it all seemed untouched by the grief and guilt that threatened to consume me.

Guilt, because I had chosen to forfeit his life. He could not tell me what he wanted, and like so many people before me—and so many who will face the same decision after me—I decided that it was his time to go. It was an unsettling thought: to hold such power over the life of another creature, to determine when suffering outweighed staying.

But I knew he was in pain. In the end, the choice was mine to make, and I had to extend myself the same grace I would offer anyone else. I could mourn him, question myself, and still accept responsibility for my decision. 

I remember lifting my head and meeting the veterinarian’s gaze. Through my tears, I thanked her for her service. I told her that I could not imagine how difficult her work must be, carrying the burden of so many final moments. I thanked her for her patience, her compassion, and the gentleness she had shown us. Most of all, I told her she was brave. I wanted her to know that her kindness mattered—that it had mattered to me. 

I forget that I am capable of this kind of empathy and tenderness. I am so often quiet, composed, and hidden behind walls of my own making.

I took this loss hard. I am terrible with attachments. It is something I constantly work on. My level of detachment is, at times, terrifying, so losing a pet was a nightmare for me. It reinforced all the things I don't like about getting close, about opening yourself up to anyone or anything. I never wanted pets, and I fought against the idea that attachment only hurts you.

 

I couldn't sleep in my bed for a month after Maverick passed, opting to sleep on my couch with my remaining cat. Koba is a sensitive little thing, and he clung to me after Maverick's passing. I always say they are my personality split in two. Koba is my sensitive side: shy at times and solitary, yet curious about the world. Maverick, meanwhile, was confident. He rightfully took up space, was standoffish, knew he was beautiful, and was so, so wild. As a visual person, I could not unsee his lifeless form on my bed. 

So, I chose to paint my living room, filling the canvas with references that reflect the things I hold dear: a nod to my love of dance, which cultivates discipline and a deep appreciation for the body; a fragment of The Birth of Venus, representing feminine rebirth; Ophelia, a meditation on beauty, grief, and surrender; and starlight, inspired by one of my favorite pastimes—gazing at the stars. I even rendered my image to replicate my mother in her youth. 

I added a candle to light the way for Maverick’s soul and painted a copy of The Secret Garden, an ode to my childhood, when I felt most free, running wild among the flowers and greenery. It is where I like to believe Maverick’s spirit is. I used Opera Pink to capture the color of the blanket Maverick loved so much—the same blanket he rested on when he was euthanized.

 

 

In art, I can create anything. So I work constantly to make my mind a good place to be. Creation requires space. How can beauty emerge when the mind is full of noise, or when doubt drowns out wonder? I seek stillness so imagination can speak.

When I looked at this after finishing it, it was a direct contradiction to my fear of attachment. I am protective of my peace, so protective that I will detach at a jarring speed. I view connections as disposable, a headache that you can be rid of to protect yourself. I believe in self-respect, and I sometimes view relationships as losing my autonomy, my freedom, and becoming a cage. But with Maverick, I grew attached, and his loss was so painful.

I've always found people difficult to trust. They can lie without thinking, mistake possession for love, and disturb a peace I've spent years building inside my own head. They fail to understand the discipline it takes. Some people look at me and see someone to possess, someone to change, a prize to win. But to Maverick, I was just a woman who gave him food, shelter, and a warm lap. A woman with a paintbrush.

 

I've spent years convincing myself that attachment only ends in pain, but then I painted this. It's as if my conscious mind hasn’t fully accepted that I am capable of deep attachment. Somewhere between the first wash of transparent brown oxide and the last touch of Opera Pink, I realized this painting wasn't about grief. It was about everything that made me feel safe. In weaving these symbols together, the painting became more than a memorial. It became a reflection of love, loss, memory, and the parts of myself that Maverick knew best. Maybe attachment doesn't only leave us with pain. Maybe, it leaves us with fourteen years of memories worth painting. The end was painful, but it was only one day. The beauty lasted fourteen years.

 

 

 

My Wildcat, he loved when I painted. Often sitting on my lap. 

 

 

I love you Mav.