Today’s been a tough day.

As much as I tried to keep my mind occupied, there was no escaping the fact that today would have been Clyde’s 21st birthday. And yes — Clyde was a cat — but anyone who’s ever loved an animal knows they aren’t “just pets.” They’re routine. They’re comfort. Their presence. They’re family.

The fact that today was cold, rainy, and just flat-out miserable didn’t make it any easier. It felt like the kind of weather made for staying inside, listening to the quiet… and noticing who’s missing.

He’s been gone a little over two months now. And there are days I think things are getting a little easier. Then a memory pops into my head out of nowhere — the sound of him moving across the floor, the way he looked at me, the little habits he had — and it nearly drops me to my knees. Today was a good example of that.

Grief with a pet is strange. They’re woven into the smallest parts of your life. Feeding times. Favorite spots. Empty corners. You don’t realize how many pieces of your day belonged to them until they’re suddenly not there.

I used to think time was supposed to make this hurt less. I’m learning instead that time just teaches you how to carry it. Some days it’s light. Some days it’s heavy. And some days — like today — it feels like the full weight of 21 years.

So tonight, I’m letting myself miss him. I’m letting it be a tough day. Because Clyde wasn’t “just a cat.” He was a constant. A companion. A small life that left a huge space behind.

Happy 21st birthday, Clyde. You are still loved. And you are still missed.