This is my Merlin, my beloved boy.

February 22, 2025, was one of the hardest days of my life. That morning, I held Merlin in my arms for the last time, whispering to him that his body had done all it could, that it was time for him to be free. I told him he didn’t have to fight anymore, that he could go where there was no more pain, no more discomfort—just warmth, peace, and endless love.

I had hoped that draining the fluid from his belly would give him more time, that it might make him feel better, but instead, it only drained what little strength he had left. Seeing the fluid return so quickly, seeing his once-strong body reduced to frailty, I knew it was no longer fair to ask him to stay.

That morning, as I drove to the vet, the weight of knowing this was our last trip together was almost unbearable. Merlin, my proud and gentle boy, complained as always—but his voice was weaker, his body more fragile than ever before. It was so hard to believe that this time, there would be no trip back home.

At the clinic, thank you for my vet, the clinic almost immediately knew that I was in the lobby and one lady guided me to the Room 7, the special room for such procedure. In the room, I held him close, feeling his warmth against me, memorizing the softness of his fur, the steady rhythm of his slow breaths. He was tired, but still my Merlin—still the cat who had been by my side through so many years, through so many moments that now felt too fleeting.

The process was peaceful. The first injection made him fall into a deep sleep, and I felt his body relax completely for the first time in days. Afterward, I held him in my arms, then let him rest in my lap—his body so fragile, so light. I kept whispering to him, “No need to fear, I am here.” “When I leave the room, follow me. Don’t stay here, don’t stay with your completely worn-out body. If MayMay comes to you, go with her.”

I felt his last two breaths on my lap, felt his heartbeat fading beneath my hands. When the final injection was given, I knew—he was probably already gone by the first injection.

I stayed with him for another 15 minutes, playing the Buddhist Heart Sutra for him, surrounding him with the warmth of my voice and presence. Until finally, I could smell the gas releasing from his body—a quiet signal that he had truly departed.

When I left the vet clinic, the world outside was the same, but everything felt different. The sun was shining, the day was moving forward, but I felt like I had left a part of myself in that room.

Merlin is gone, but so much of him stays with me—in the quiet moments, in the empty spaces where he used to be, in the countless memories we built together. He was more than just my cat; he was my companion, my comfort, my home.

This is my Merlin, my beloved boy. And though he is no longer in my arms, he will be with me forever. 💙✨

If you ask me whether I would take in another white cat, the answer is yes—it’s highly possible because of this boy. He truly brightens up my home like sunshine. But I’ll limit it to only long-haired, pure white cats. Ha!

That said, don’t try to trick me into taking in another cat, even a long-haired one. Whether I take one in or not all depends on chance.

sigh But that’s another story.