She Was Family: Grieving Skye

Hello Bloomers!

This post is a little more personal. I want to talk about grief—specifically, the kind that sneaks in quietly, then roots itself in places you didn’t know could ache. Today, I’m writing about someone very special. Her name was Skye.

I never expected the grief to run this deep. I knew losing a pet would hurt—but not like this. It’s been six months since Skye passed, and I still find myself crying every few days.

Skye was an outdoor cat when we adopted her. She was two or three years old when my son called and asked if I would take her. His friend’s family, who had raised her since birth, was planning to re-home her.

She cried such sorrowful sounds those first two weeks, as if she were in pain. I felt so bad for her—she was confused, unsure where she was, and had lived most of her life outdoors.

We did everything we could to help her adjust. She didn’t seem to mind our other cat, which I think brought her some comfort. Skye was a beautiful, plump tortoiseshell with green eyes. She hated being picked up—she’d growl every time—but she adored being petted and brushed.

She would lie on her back and stare up at the ceiling, watching us walk by with those curious eyes. My daughter even taught her to sit on command and give paw-fives in exchange for treats. Her two greatest joys in life were food—and the freedom to be outside.

At the time, we lived in a second-floor apartment, so the balcony became her sanctuary. Thankfully, we had a view of the woods. She would meow every night to be let out there and would stay until morning.

I used to wake up several times a night just to check on her. Each time, she was there—sitting in that regal way she always did, one paw crossed over the other, gazing into the trees.

Eventually, Skye began marking the house when she couldn’t go outside. Beds, furniture, clothing—nothing was off-limits. It wasn’t easy.

When we moved to a townhouse with a fenced-in yard, I slowly introduced her to the backyard. I put a tracker on her collar just in case she jumped the fence—but she never did. She would run through the grass trying to catch squirrels and birds, though she never could. She was too plump and far too dignified.

Mostly, she’d sit on the picnic table and just… look. That was enough for her. She’d come inside only for food, water, or a quick head rub.

Bringing her inside was always a negotiation. She’d growl and meow at the door, and sometimes even spray if we pushed too hard. After one especially stressful vet visit, I stopped forcing it.

From then on, unless the weather was dangerous, she stayed out as long as she liked. Even on rainy days, she’d sit at her table, watching the world in silence. I would peek out the window before bed and see her there—always there. And even though it made me sad sometimes, it was clear… that was her happy place.

Then, something changed.

The week before she disappeared, Skye began meowing at the door—to come in. That was rare. For four days straight, she came inside around 10 p.m., curled at the foot of my bed, or nudged my hand for rubs. After an hour or two, she’d meow again to go back out.

The last time I saw her was just before sunrise. I looked out the window and there she was, on the picnic table again. Something about it felt... different. A quiet sadness swept over me, though I couldn’t explain why.

That morning, I went outside to check on her. She turned, blinked slowly at me, and meowed. I called her again, asking if she wanted to come in—but she didn’t turn around. So I sighed and went back inside.

By 8 a.m., she was gone.

I called her name, searched the yard, and finally pinged her tracker. It showed she had left the yard an hour after I saw her. The signal placed her just across the street.

We followed it, expecting to find her chasing something, having slipped through the fence. She had never left the yard before.

When we got close, we heard the soft ping of her tracker. But she kept moving—bush to bush—ignoring our calls. We followed her like this for nearly an hour until I had to leave to take my daughter to school.

Our neighbors promised to keep an eye out.

The tracker kept updating—showing her in the same general area, never returning home.

The next day, I walked to where her signal had been strongest. That’s when I saw her, lying under a tree in a thick patch of woods.

I started to cry the moment I saw her.

There she was, my Skye, sleeping with her head over her paws in that regal way she always did. But this time… she wasn’t going to wake up.

The vet said she hadn’t been attacked. There was no sign of illness. She hadn’t stopped eating or drinking. She had simply… laid down and gone to sleep.

We had Skye for eight years. I pray she felt the love we gave her. I hope her life with us, even with the struggles, was peaceful and full.

I’ve since realized—Skye was saying goodbye that final week. She came in to be near us, then quietly left to pass on her own terms.

I know some cats do that. But it still hurts… that she was alone. It breaks my heart.

I miss her deeply. This grief grips me in ways I didn’t expect—even now, half a year later.

They’re never just pets.

Skye was family.

We miss her every single day.

Until next time Bloomers, remember to be kind to yourself and others.

P.S. In Skye’s memory, I created something special—

Skye Paw Print Soap – a gentle blend of chamomile and oat, inspired by how she smelled after being outside.

It’s a quiet reminder of love, nature, and the ones who leave paw prints on our hearts.

You can find it in my handcrafted collection at https://www.scente-creations.com.