“Get rid of it immediately!” she said about my cat, who’d been my sidekick for a solid decade.
My girlfriend, Emily, and I had recently decided to move in together. We’d been dating for nearly eight months—things were going swimmingly—so I suggested she join me in my flat. Our cozy little nest was meant for three: me, Emily, and my steadfast companion, a ginger tom named Whiskers.
Whiskers had been with me for ten years. I’d taken him from my parents’ place when I first moved to London. He’d seen me through loneliness, successes, and even a few disastrous flings. He’d greet me at the door, snooze beside me, and purr on my worst days. I didn’t just love that cat—he was family.
At first, Emily didn’t seem bothered. If anything, she’d even pet him occasionally, calling him “adorable.” I’d thought we’d struck gold—a harmonious little trio. But the bliss didn’t last long.
A couple of weeks in, Emily started sniffling. Her eyes turned red, she coughed constantly, and headaches became her new normal. I suggested a doctor’s visit. The verdict hit like a bolt from the blue: cat allergy.
“But how?” I spluttered. “She’s been around cats since forever—she even played with Whiskers before!”
“Sir,” the doctor said dryly, “allergies are sneaky. Exposure builds up. When you were just dating, she wasn’t around the allergen constantly. Now she’s living with it. The reaction’s worsening—it could get dangerous.”
I was gutted. Torn between common sense and the lump in my throat. I loved Emily, but what about Whiskers? The creature who’d been there when no one else was?
On the way home, I considered sending him to my parents—sacrificing part of my heart for Emily’s health. But before we’d even stepped inside, she turned to me, coat still on, and demanded,
“So? When are you getting rid of him?”
“Getting rid of him?” I echoed. “We just got back—can we at least talk about—”
“There’s nothing to discuss,” she said flatly. “I feel worse every day. Do you want me to suffocate?”
I froze. Her tone, the sharpness—it stung. I’d been ready to compromise, but “get rid of”? Like he was rubbish? Like he meant nothing?
“If anyone’s leaving,” I said quietly, “it’s you. Whiskers stays. End of.”
Emily stood there for a beat, then, without another word, spun on her heel and started packing. Within hours, it was like she’d never been there.
At first, I felt hollow. Then—oddly—relief sunk in. If someone demands you erase part of your life, they don’t truly love you. Sure, I could’ve pushed for a compromise. But why? To tiptoe around her next “allergy” meltdown?
No regrets. Sometimes animals have more loyalty than humans. That night, Whiskers curled up beside me while I nursed a strong cuppa and stared out the window. His rumbling purr seemed to say, “I’ve got you. It’ll be alright.”
And it will be. Life isn’t over after one love. But if someone expects you to toss aside what got you through the hard times? That’s not love—that’s selfishness.
These days, it’s just me and Whiskers again. Maybe someday someone will come along who understands: my family isn’t just me. It’s my scruffy, wise, purring old mate, too.
