Note: This was an entry for the Pen Awards writing competition. I highly doubt I'll win anything cause the grammar and such was disgusting, but I wrote this partially for my dear cat. I love you, Bacon.

Meeting is a pleasure, parting is a pain, treasure what you have, and you’ll never regret again. Understand that, I told myself, understand that. To my dismay, due to my lack of determination to actually treasure what I had, I resulted in failing to suit the demands of my.. demanding mind.

I have a dog, an English Cocker Spaniel, Mambo, and he was much like a gift, for we had lost a dog, who was adopted by us a few years after the death of our first “family dog”. When we lost that dog, I clearly recall sitting on my bed immobile for a few long moments before the tears in my eyes were enough to leave scalding trails down my cheeks.

All I felt was remorse for making his stay in our home more enjoyable. My sister had her back to me and while she read her book, she reached forward for the tissue box and handed it to me nonchalantly and said simply, “Don’t cry, he’ll be fine.” I knew not, and I know not whether he was and is fine, but one thing I knew for sure: I was most definitely fine the next day.

It was late August last year, when my sister took a sudden, strong liking for cats. We have never had a cat before, and her thoughts of having a new animal in the house simply did not tally with mine. Having a cat meant more trouble, and, moreover, I felt that this was rather unfair to Mambo as the attention would then be divided.

Against my parents’ wishes, she hunted for the perfect cat that would act as a closer companion for her as compared to Mambo. Onto online cat adoption centres she went, and even expressed her want for a kitten verbally, spreading the word widely. I was nearly confident enough to bet that half the world knew of her request.

In early September, a friend of my sister’s found a teensy kitten by the side of the road, wailing its lungs out. As expected, when my sister brought the kitten back, my parents were not pleased at all.

Soon enough, my parents conceded to the cold and aloof treatment my sister was offering to them. They simply could not resist peeking into the cage where the little kitten usually lay curled up in a tiny ball; they simply could not resist feeling a tingle of fondness warming their hearts.

Time went by, and the little, innocent kitten we knew grew to be a crazy, but, like most pet owners think, adorable thing. He was no pure-breed, but the striped patterns on his back were beautiful. It reminded us of streaky bacon, and hence his name, Bacon.

There were times when he bit or scratched us for no reason, and there were times during those times, that I hated him so much because of his.. irrationality. I did not feel that I deserved such treatment from a mere kitten.

There were also the times when he made us so happy, or amused, rather, for our entertainment, and perhaps his own too. He was a different kitten, different from other kittens we knew to exist, he was our one and only.

Not even a year old, he left us just today. I never said goodbye, and I never spoke to him in the last few days, if my memory serves me right and well. I just did not see the need to then. I received the news while I was in school, and still, I had to stay back for my CCA then.

I remember reading many compositions which describe the reception of bad news, and usually, phrases like “hit me like a thunderbolt” or “could not find the voice to speak” were used. Up till now, I do not know if those are really true.

My version of the reception, however, is entirely different, as was the level of remorse I had felt when one of our dogs went missing. I thought it was a joke, but I could hear the shaking and cracking of my sister’s voice over the phone. I could still “find the voice to speak”, and it was only in the last minute of the conversation that I started to feel the impact. It was not a sudden blow, it felt as though comprehension just dawned on me; like a gargantuan wave of warm water.

The journey home after my CCA was painful. The background display on my handphone was of Bacon, and every time I looked at it, I had to pretend I was yawning, in a vain attempt to mask the reason for my teary eyes.

I realized with dim humour, the irony of the situation I was in. Such a big thing led me to think of the tiny things. I began to regret the times I yelled at him(not that he seemed to care, though) in frustration and anger, and all that I had and had not done for him.

The sorrow that flooded my heart like a sea of daggers made me think of, now, the tiniest of things. I wondered if his last meal was good enough for him, and if he really disliked me. The list of thoughts went, and goes, on and on. It has not stopped. Regret brings one nowhere, but now I take comfort in the fact that a loved one is not dead as long as the memories are kept alive in each and every one’s heart.

Meeting is a pleasure, parting is a pain, treasure what you have, and you’ll never regret again. Understand that, I told myself, a time not long ago, understand that. Now I understand, and I will for a long time, perhaps even till the end of it.