Walking my dog down my street in Albuquerque in the summer of 2016, I saw a small gray kitten climb up into the engine of a parked car. I took my dog home, and lured the kitten out from under the car with some food (she was very hungry). I couldn’t grab her, and she promptly ran down the street toward my house and…climbed up into my partner’s car engine.

I caught her in an animal trap in the space of about 15 minutes.

We took the kitten to the vet, who pronounced her a healthy girl, six weeks old. Her tail was short and zig-zagged, broken and healed in four or five places. She had fur the color of cold, gray skies, and eyes the color of sea ice, so I named her after my favorite season.

Winter was not really a snuggly cat, always a little bit skittish and wary, but she was highly affectionate all the same. She was talkative and sweet, friendly and gentle. Even through all of her fear and misery in this last week, she never once lashed out at me intentionally, though she had plenty of opportunity.

I made the tough decision today. It’s one I’ve had to make before, and it’s always hard, but this one felt different. This one felt worse. Maybe it’s because she was only seven years old. Maybe it’s because she tried to love me right until the very end, even though her world had become torment. She was seven pound of heart.

Sometimes she slept on my bed by my feet, sometimes in a dresser drawer nearby. When she rolled over in her sleep she made little grunting and squeaking noises. Her favorite toy was a purple worm on a string. She loved “towel time’, rolling around on the carpet or a towel, rubbing her face on my old hairbrush. She was my sun goddess, my sweet chicky, my Winter Bug, Buggle, Buglet.

Rest in peace, Winter Chicky. I love you, my girl.