My cat Buddy passed away yesterday, after a fight with pneumonia. No, I’m not ok. He’s been my anchor.

He started his life in Brome, Quebec — found alone on a farm, scraggly and tiny, maybe eight weeks old, with a meow that sounded like a baby dinosaur. I wasn’t a cat person. I already had my incredible pug, Missfit. But Buddy didn’t care about any of that. He chose me. The next morning I woke up to that teeny tiny cat curled up on my chest, purring like he was smugly saying, I’m home.

I was smitten.

He made the journey from that farm to Montreal, then west to Toronto. And from the beginning, Buddy just loved. He loved Missfit like she was his big sister. He loved every dog that came after — Phil Spector the chihuahua, and eventually his absolute best friend, Ringo. He’s always been a dog cat. Not tolerating them. Truly loving them. Sleeping with them, following them, trusting them completely.

He assumed love first. That was always his thing. People, dogs, chaos, new places — in Buddy’s world, everything was safe until proven otherwise. And I don’t think anything ever proved otherwise to him.

In 2019, Buddy found himself in the cabin of an airplane headed for Tokyo. He cried a little (fair), complained a little (very on brand), then settled in like he’d been flying international his whole life. After a bullet train ride, Osaka became home. New smells, new sounds, new snacks.

And my husband Yasunari, who had also claimed he wasn’t really a cat person, didn’t stand a chance. Buddy does that to people. Before long he was completely wrapped around his paw — the most gentle, attentive, loving cat dad you could ever imagine.

Then came the baby. I wondered if this would finally be the thing that disrupted Buddy’s world. But I should have known better. Another human that his mom loved that much? Obviously Buddy was going to love him too. He adapted the way he always did: completely, and without drama.

And then another move. From city life to the farm in rural Fukui.

Through every version of my life, he’s been there. Toronto chaos. Late nights DJing. Packing up apartments. Falling in and out of love. Crossing an ocean. Becoming a wife. Becoming a mom. Building a life I never could have imagined. Buddy was always curled up nearby. Demanding treats with his baby dinosaur meows. Loving everyone. Trusting everything.

And at the end, he was still so completely himself. Most cats hide when they’re sick. Not Buddy. He kept himself close. He stayed with us. He purred. He loved us right up until he couldn’t anymore.

He’s been laid to rest in his favorite spot in the garden, where he can lie in the sun, watch the birds, and nibble the plants to his heart’s content.

He wasn’t just a cat. He was my anchor, my constant. To me, Buddy represents home — not tied to any place, but to a feeling. He decided I was home before I even knew where home was going to be.

I will never stop missing him.