Early Monday morning, Thanksgiving Day, I received a phone call from my vet. I was told that I had a decision to make. My little companion of the last eleven years was nearing the end of her time with me. She had reached a place where we could no longer help her - a place where trying to keep her any longer would have been unkind.

It was a very gentle passing. She knew me, and pushed her head into my hand, rubbing her little face against me as she always had. I sat holding my little friend, talking quietly and stroking her soft fur. She curled up in my arms and I cradled her for a time, then we released her, I held her close for a few minutes longer, tears running down my face. Then I said a last goodbye to my sweet kitty and gave up her empty shell.

There's a very large hole in my life now - much bigger than you would think could be left by such a small cat.

I am just now beginning to realize how much I depended on her just being there.

She was the last link to my former life - the last thing I could hang on to.

She helped me make the transition from being partnered to being alone, from a having secure home to facing an uncertain future.

She was my touchstone - my little friend,

She gave my life some semblance of normalcy - a reason to keep it together - a reason to get up in the morning (she was most insistent about having her breakfast on time) - a reason to come home.

Even though I would have liked to keep her with me longer, her time is done, and she has moved on.

I don't feel ready to go it alone, but she stayed as long as she was able, and I will always be grateful for the many good years we had together.

I am learning some difficult lessons now about grieving, and how to best deal with my loss.

The first thing I had to examine was the guilt - the terrible lingering doubts that I had let her go too soon. Questioning my decision - wondering if we had exhausted every available humane option.

I managed to squash down those nagging thoughts for the first few days, but as I was boiling down the bones from the freshly stripped and frozen roast turkey I hadn't had the heart to eat, a vagrant whisper drifted through my mind. "How Sarge would have enjoyed this," it murmured.

Sarge had adored turkey. I could almost feel her little paws patting my leg and hear her urgent requests for just one more scrap of breast meat.

Strainer in hand, I burst into tears. Standing at the kitchen sink, bent almost double over a sieve full of bones, and sobbing into the turkey broth, I realized I had to do something.

My first call was to Sarge's vet. I must have spent almost half an hour on the phone with her, but she went over Sarge's chart with me, carefully explaining what all the "numbers" and test results meant.

She kindly reassured me that given my kitty's age and already existing conditions, I had made the right choice - that it had been time to let her go.

She also told me I could call their office any time I needed to talk. She had lost a kitty some years before and knew first-hand what I was going through. She gave me a run-down of several bereavement options.

She suggested I could connect with a pet bereavement support group. As well, she passed along the names and numbers of several rescue societies.

Some of the options available are that I can make a donation in my Sarge's memory, volunteer to spend some time to help care for the rescued animals, or even adopt a rescued kitty.

I also discovered that I could foster rescued animals, giving them a temporary home until a permanent placement could be found. Fostering works very well as it removes some pressure to provide for the animal from the rescue society, and the rescued kitty can experience a loving home while it awaits adoption.

Knowing there are things I can do - positive actions, steps I can take - has made such a difference.

It has assuaged some of the feeling of helplessness.

It has made a difference to know there are people who have been similarly hard hit by the loss of beloved companion only a phone call away.

The sense of loss is still almost overwhelming at times. It sneaks up at the darnedest times, blind-siding me while I'm thinking bout something else.

Our pets accept us as we are, whatever mood we are in. It doesn't matter if we're wearing old sweats or having a bad hair day.

They don't judge us - they just love us. It is enough for them that we feed them, and love them, and that we are there.

When we lose that unconditional love and acceptance, we loose a part of ourselves. We can feel as though we have no value, no one to care for, no one who cares for us.

Often, writing about those feelings can help get them out and keep them from festering inside you - the pain, the grief, the sadness, the anger.

Right now, I feel like there's a hole in my heart - a big empty place in my chest - though maybe it's not completely empty because it hurts so much. When my little friend died she took a piece of me with her.

Sometimes it feels like she took the best part.

...but I know that though it hurts right now, things will get better. Maybe not today, maybe not even tomorrow, but they will get better.

As when any loved one dies, the world goes on, the sun comes up, and we do, eventually, stop hurting. We never forget them, but if we find ways to heal, we do learn to remember them without the pain.

We find we can celebrate all the wonderful moments we shared, and one day we may even find room in our hearts to share with another the love they so freely shared with us.