My little Milo didn't die. I had to give him away, six years ago. It broke my heart, and when I heard that I wasn't allowed to know who adopted him, I felt like something died inside of me. I've moved on since then, but I can't look at these old cat-shaped ornaments of mine, one of which is black and white with the name "Milo" painted in white on his breast, without crying my eyes out. Actually, I'm tearing up now as I write this.
Ever since I gave him up, I've felt a kind of emptiness in my heart, and for the longest time I could swear I saw a cat darting away out of the corner of my eye when I was alone in the house, and sometimes, even now, when I'm upstairs in my room I can hear a plaintive meowing coming up from downstairs. We have a dog, and sometimes it turns out to be him howling for attention or treats, but other times, I know that sound too well, and I know it isn't Sammie. Michael, the cat who held my heart as a little girl, died after we gave him up, (feline leukemia, I think). Sometimes I wonder if it's him meowing, or Milo, but I know it's one of them, and it always makes me tear up and start missing them all over again.