“I loved you all your life. I’ll miss you the rest of mine.”
Lolita was the first pet in my life that belonged only to me. She wasn’t the family pet; she was my pet, and mine alone. She was the offspring of Arena, the cat I had grown attached to but had to leave behind when I moved out of state, and missed terribly. So, she was extra special for that. And my mom chose the runt in Arena’s litter for me to adopt because that little one would lie in the sun even when it was really hot already. I love heat, and my mom said that this particular kitten was meant for me. As soon as that kitten was old enough to board a plane, my mom flew from California to D.C. to bring her to me. I named her “Lolita,” which means “little Lola” in Spanish, reflecting both her irregularly small size and her roots in Southern California.
Lolita was with me during the most formative period of my life, my entry into adulthood. She witnessed and was part of every milestone I reached as a 26-year-old young woman fresh out of college and finding herself. My first apartment, my first car, my first career-launching job, my first serious relationship – every critical “first” someone can experience included her. I learned to live on my own while she was with me. I learned who I am while she was with me. I have never known any way of defining myself that doesn’t involve her. Never have I seen myself as “Kat,” because I’ve never interpreted my existence singularly like that. I’ve only ever seen myself as “Lolita and Kat,” as two sides of the same beating heart, existing simultaneously with no conceivable alternative, no separation without extinction.
Lolita was also with me through the deaths of three family members: my maternal grandfather, whom I cared for in his home while he was on hospice care, until his last breath in 2012; one of my maternal aunts in 2014; and my mother, whom I watched cancer steal slowly away from me, and whom I cared for during her two weeks on hospice care in 2016. Lolita was my rock no matter who was snatched from me by death. And she was my rock in the aftermath of my failed marriage, the crushing depression of prolonged unemployment, the horrors of an abusive boyfriend, the devastation of addiction – and the light of recovery. I could handle anything as long as I had her. She made me emotionally invincible in a way second only to my faith in Christ, which has spared me from dangers Lolita couldn’t protect me from, but would have if she could have.
Lolita was the first being I ever felt perfectly safe with and loved by. My relationship with her was the only one in my life that harbored no threats. There was no threat of being neglected because she was never too busy for me, and we were side by side anytime we could be. There was no threat of rejection because we had unconditional love for each other, and neither of us went anywhere without the other, both inside and outside our home. There was no threat of deceit or betrayal because she lacked the capacity to lie to me. In everything, there was no possible way for her to harm me – and if there had been, she’s the only being in my life who wouldn’t have done so anyhow. She had no competition for her time or companionship; I was hers entirely.
Lolita was also the first being I felt truly watched over and protected by. When I would cry, she would snuggle with me to comfort with me. When I was having a seizure aura, she would pace around me as I lay in bed or on the floor. She was always attentive to how I was doing at any moment – far more so than anyone would expect a cat to be. Her empathy was so deep that she even had to go on pain medication briefly in 2013 because her absorption of my high stress from work had made her unable to urinate. Extensive testing ruled out all physical explanations, leading the doctor to ask me whether I had been stressed as of late, and concluding that her empathy was the cause of her psychosomatic illness. She loved me sacrificially. And she was the first being in my life to care that much about both my physical and my emotional health.
You learn who you really are in your 20s and 30s, and she became gradually embedded in every part of my identity. At 40 today, I have never known myself or who I am without her. For 14 definitive years, she wasn’t just passively present, but was woven into my emotions and my survival. She was part of the process of realizing what my personality is like when it’s tested and sliced and remolded. And that’s why I’m struggling with accepting that our shared soul has been halved while one of us is still alive with only half of a soul. We can’t be apart and still exist; I just can’t comprehend how that’s possible. How can we exist in different planes when we are one and the same?
And so, for the first time since finding myself, I’m alone. My best friend is gone. My soulmate is in heaven with half of our soul, and I can’t see or hear her anymore. Now, I have to completely redefine myself and rebuild how I see myself. And I’m alone this time. People may offer their help, but there will never be another Lolita in my life, not from this age onward. It’s a new, frightening era for me – one I have yet to enter into due to the chains of shock and denial that, even three weeks since her passing, bind me to a past I can’t let go of even just a little.
Lolita, you were – and still are – everything to me. We were never supposed to part, never supposed to have to live without each other, never supposed to be separated by anything. I miss you. And I need you here. I don’t know how to do life without you. But I’m trying – and I’m staying sober like I promised you I would.
Someday I’ll bring you the other half of our soul. I’ll do my best with it until then.
Kat Hearons 
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