At Catster, some of the most powerful stories we share don’t come from experts or journalists — they come from you, our readers. They are the stories of love, resilience, laughter, loss, and the everyday moments that reveal just how deeply our cats shape our lives.
When a reader opens their heart to honor a cat who changed their world, we believe those stories deserve a place here. They remind us that the bond between humans and cats isn’t just companionship. It’s connection, healing, and sometimes even transformation.
We’re honored to publish and share these stories and tributes, not only to keep the memory of beloved cats alive, but to celebrate the lessons and love they leave behind. We hope you enjoy this beautiful story about Rocky, written by his devoted mom Carrie.
What’s that sound?! We were out for a morning walk and as we crossed the little bridge over the canal, a sound hit my ears—a strange animal sound, but not at all the sound of a cat, or kitten. It was loud and sounded like a cross between a cat and a crow!
I made my way down the embankment, parting the branches of a willow. There he was—a tiny tabby in the crook of the tree. “Oh my goodness, it’s a kitten!” I cried out. His saucer-wide eyes nearly matched the color of the leaves. I reached in and up he climbed, out to the end of a branch—then P L O P—into the canal below. We watched as the tiny thing paddled to shore and scrambled up the bank where I was waiting to grab him. He was trembling and purring simultaneously. I held his small, wet body tight against me, and home we went to tend to this tiny tabby. Since he was a fighter from the beginning, he earned the name Rocky.
I came out to our garden, coffee in hand, and sat in stillness, reflecting on the last weeks—and that last day—I spent with my Rocky cat. It was a cool September morning with a gentle breeze rustling the sycamore. I imagine him as a tiny kitten, crying out from the tree by the canal, and I can’t believe it’s been nearly 13 years. I’ve lost cats and I’ve lost dogs, hamsters and rabbits, but I’ve never lost a cat that left this kind of hole in my heart. He was larger than life, and his absence has left an emptiness that I could not even begin to fathom before he was gone.
As I sat sipping my coffee, I caught a glimpse of a pale golden shadow slipping along the top of the fence. I know Rocky’s spirit is still with me; I know he comes to the garden to visit, where he spent so much time atop the rough plank table as I brushed his pale golden fur and read him the daily devotional from “Jesus Calling.”
When Rocky started to fail, I knew we needed more than just special cat food and daily IV fluids. We needed God’s healing powers, and more than that, I needed to find a way to get closer to Him myself.
I tried everything—every variety of food, different bowls in different places. Anything to get him to eat. For a while, he was improving, gaining weight, and his energy was returning. Still, I knew we needed a greater power, so our morning ritual began. I called it table time.
Some mornings, I’d find him already stretched on the table outside the kitchen window, and other days he’d make a grand entrance. He’d come striding along the narrow edge of the latticework, emerging through the waving arms of the sycamore. He’d leap down—to the hot tub, to the ground—and up to the table with grace and ease. Sometimes, we spent an hour or more there, or just a few minutes, but our routine was always the same. He’d sprawl across the table, ready for his morning brushing, and I’d read him the daily message, telling him this was our time, that we were all connected, and he lay still and listened. I felt it, too.
Sitting still has always been difficult for me—just being. Be still and know that I am God. The morning time I had with Rocky was a gift. I felt at peace during those brief moments after I read the daily passage. If it hadn’t been for my reaching out, reaching up, reaching for strength, and praying to God for His guidance and his love, I don’t think I’d have found this connection. There was another soul besides me that needed Him: my Rocky cat. My baby boy. He couldn’t tell me how badly he felt or why he couldn’t eat or why he disappeared for hours, hiding under an old piece of equipment at the neighbor’s house. His behavior was changing so quickly. Both of us needed God’s help.
Normally, I’d take Rocky to the vet for fluid treatments, but the expense and stress became too much. I turned my writing studio into a clinic. An IV bag hung behind the white wicker chair where Rocky would cuddle on chilly evenings.
Even now, when I think back, I’m right there again, beginning the small ceremony of keeping him alive a little longer.
I’m carrying him out, starting the “Relaxing Cat & Kitten” music on a long, ad-free loop, and getting ready to hydrate him. 150 cc each time. I mark the bag with a blue Sharpie so I can easily see when we’ve reached the necessary amount. It’s always stressful—more for me than him, I think. I channel my friend, Elaine, who is my pet whisperer, nutritionist, and friend. She’s been caring for, rescuing, and tending to all sorts of critters for 30 years. She’s always there, at the end of the phone or email—always. I confessed to her that I got so nervous; my legs actually went weak. Her matter-of-fact response: About being scared of the procedure, that’s normal, and you do it anyway, that’s your courage. So I do.
I grab the scruff of his neck, like mamma cat would, make the little tent they showed me at the vet, and check once more to be sure the needle tip is curved down. Then I ask for guidance, take a deep, slow breath, and quickly insert the needle, keeping my hand firmly on him while rolling the little wheel to open the flow.
He squirms just a bit at the prick, then settles. He looks up at me with those gold-green eyes, and I tell him God is with us and that I love him. My heart is pounding, but I keep breathing, whispering that he’s a good boy. He rests his head on my knee. A soft breeze blows through the window, and I tell Rocky that it’s God’s breath. I believe it.
I imagine he trusts me, because he lets me continue. I watch the fluid inch toward the blue line and murmur, We’re almost done, Rocky. Just another minute… you’ll feel so much better. Finally, I roll the wheel down, stopping the flow, and gently remove the needle.
He jumps down and waits for me to open the door. I sit still for a few moments, listening to the music, grateful we are finished. Often, tears come—because I have been brave, because I’ve done this, all by myself, one more time. And because my sweet boy is good for another day.
I sit here, listening to the wind chimes, the breeze is starting to pick up, and the notes are floating up into the branches, into the leaves, and into my heart. I look over at Rocky’s space, the orange candle still flickering, after burning through the night. I think of him bounding across the backyard, up on the fence, stretching out on his table, loving his brushing, and I ask God to keep my thoughts of him that way, not of him when he was so sick. That was just his earthly body. His spirit is larger than life now. It was larger than life when he was here! I’ve never had a pet that had that kind of presence. He filled the house and the yard and the patio and all the leaves and trees and flowers with a magical spirit. Everything is hushed now as the clouds roll slowly in, possibly bringing rain.
Rocky loved to lie under the old rusty wheelbarrow that our construction workers left in the backyard after pouring the new patio. There was just something about wheelbarrows. I found a small yellow one, and it sits near his special area, under the Podocarpus tree, where he used to like to lie in summer, snuggled down in the leaves. I figure that once it starts to rain, it would be nice to have a wheelbarrow to give him some cover. That cat would go out in the heaviest downpour, and always came back dry. Somehow, he found a place, under someone’s deck, or under the eaves, or under a wheelbarrow.
It’s been two years since Rocky left us, and tears still sting my eyes as I write these words. From the moment I found him to the moment he passed in my arms, he was my RockyBabyBoy. His candle still glows through the branches of the Podocarpus, a reminder that love does not end. And when I read the words, Be still, and know that I am God, I feel certain Rocky is still here in spirit, wrapped in that stillness, reminding me of God’s presence.
