Milky: The grey wanderer

Milky. The first thought when hearing the name, 'Milky' might be of a pure white, cloud-like figure, or something resembling feathery cotton or milky hues. But Milky was a seven-year-old pure Persian cat with a deep grey coat and striking yellow eyes. It was a stark contrast to the name he bore.

A male, through and through, and no, he wasn't what one might call a unique cat. He wasn't as crankily charming as the famous Grumpy Cat, or as photogenic as other breeds that capture the spotlight. Milky was just... Milky.

There have been countless powerful stories about death and grief, but few truly explore the delicate experience of pet bereavement. 

Milky left us on 10 September, and it has been one of the most strangely profound experiences I have ever gone through. Perhaps it feels so raw because I've been fortunate enough to avoid much tragedy, or maybe it's simply that I miss him—deeply, achingly so.

I never imagined I could love an animal, or care for one more than myself until Milky came into my life. I was immediately captivated by his eyes and little nose when I first saw him in 2017. His eyes were so clear, they were unlike those of any other cat I'd ever seen. The original plan was to get another cat, but his eyes – they didn't lie. Without a second thought, I brought him home.

At that time, I knew nothing about caring for foreign-breed cats. When I visited a pet shop to buy food, litter, and other necessities for him, I was shocked at how expensive everything was. 

Raising a human baby would probably cost less. And to top it off, I was a student then. But none of these challenges dampened my affection for Milky.

When I first brought him home, he was only two months old, but he already had the maturity of a much older cat. He never once made a mess outside of his litter box.

Milky's first trip was by plane, from Dhaka to Rangpur. Later, he became quite the traveller, enduring countless journeys, even a continuous 22-hour bus ride, without ever causing awkward moments.

He never needed bribery or training tricks. Milky was smart, a self-learner.

With time, his unique personality shone through—clever, sometimes aggressive, yet perfectly friendly. He could open glass windows, slip through balconies, move between flats, catch birds, and lean on the grill to watch children play. 

His keen senses always alerted him to someone's arrival before they even knocked. In both Dhaka and Rangpur, the local children adored him.

To alleviate his loneliness, we brought a female companion for him, who would later become the mother of his many kittens. 

Yet, none of the kittens resembled Milky—not his grey coat, his sharp eyes, or his distinctive personality. We gave away all the kittens except Milky and one female cat, Bubin.

Milky was a one-of-a-kind alpha cat. Independent and resourceful, he could even open car windows and leap onto the basin to drink water. 

He'd give strangers a wary side-eye, with one ear perked up, whenever his name was called. And when he needed affection, he'd come to pet himself, pressing into the caress he craved.

His escapades became legendary. Once, he snuck out, and people mistook him for a wild animal that had escaped from the zoo. The neighbours called the animal rescue team, surrounding him in confusion until we rushed to claim him. 

From then on, Milky became a local legend. Whenever he sneaked into someone's house, they would return him to us. Strangely, wherever Milky went, the sky seemed to fill with crows.

Milky was a survivor. He'd faced illnesses before, even overcoming a deadly case of cat flu. But this time, he left too quickly. Within just two days, he was gone.

Now, the windows that were once kept tightly shut to prevent his nightly escapades remain open, but the house feels emptier. Bubin, once shy and quiet, now roams the home, calling for him, confused by his absence. 

People suggest getting a new cat, one that looks similar. But could any cat replace Milky? Pets, like people, are irreplaceable. He was part of our family, a companion who filled our lives with quiet mischief and boundless affection. 

As I sit here, reflecting on his absence, I realise that the love we shared is not something that can easily be forgotten or replaced. Grief, after all, doesn't care if its subject walks on two legs or four. Maybe that's the hardest part—not just losing him, but accepting that some bonds, no matter how furry or fleeting, stay with us forever.

Milky will always be with me, in the open windows he once slipped through, and in the quiet moments when I catch myself still waiting for him to come home.