Cassie, the Prayer of the Absent

That day, the vet showed us the images without hesitation: tumors everywhere. Not one, not two, but a multitude of black spots that had invaded her tiny body. "It’s widespread," he said, his gaze weary. We stayed there beside her, stroking her ears in silence, feeling her breath grow slower, shallower. "We can ease her pain, but…" He didn’t finish his sentence. He didn’t need to.

We came home without her.

Cassie was there, sitting by the door, as she always did when we went out. But this time, she knew right away. Not because she had seen Phoebie leave. Because she saw our faces. She sensed the absence before we even crossed the threshold. She sniffed the air, paced in circles, let out a hoarse meow, as if calling for her. Then she fell silent. She sat down, her tail wrapped around herself, and waited.

I cried that night, in my room, in the dark. No light, no sound, just the weight of that screaming silence. And that’s where she found me. She entered without a sound, came closer, and looked at me. Not with curiosity. With a gravity I had never seen in her. She placed her paw on my knee, and she understood.

2. Cassie’s Illness

Three weeks later, Cassie started bleeding. Blood in her litter box, on the tiles, as if her body was rejecting what she couldn’t express. The vet talked about cystitis, stress, antibiotics. "She’s allergic to those," I said, remembering past episodes. "We need to change everything: her food, water, environment." We changed everything. But nothing worked.

Because Cassie wasn’t just sick. She was grieving.

She wandered through the house, nose to the ground, searching for a scent, a trace. She refused to eat. She flinched at the slightest noise. And then, one evening, she sat in front of Phoebie’s room—the room we still hadn’t cleared out—and she meowed. Not a normal meow. A cry. A sound that sent chills down my spine.

That’s when I realized: she wasn’t crying with tears. She was crying with her body.

3. Mantras as a Last Resort

I don’t believe in miracles. But I believe in presence.

I started sitting with her in the evenings, in silence. Not to heal her. To be there. I began to sing—mantras, prayers, those wordless sounds that rise from the gut and soothe what cannot be soothed. At first, Cassie listened, ears perked, eyes half-closed. Then, little by little, she began to respond.

When I chanted "Om Namah Shivaya", she would curl up against me, her fur vibrating, as if each syllable was a caress. When I whispered "Lokah Samastah Sukhino Bhavantu", she would lift her paw, as if trying to touch the words. And sometimes, she would stare into the empty space, as if she saw something.

As if she were talking to Phoebie.

One day, I felt her body relax against mine. Not because she was getting better. Because she had found a way to say what she couldn’t express. The episodes became less frequent. Not thanks to medicine. Thanks to this: those moments when, together, we sent a message somewhere.

4. The X-Rays, the Tumors, and What Remains

I remember the X-ray images. Those tumors that had eaten away at Phoebie from the inside. I remember the vet looking at us, helpless. "There’s nothing more we can do." I remember coming home, Cassie waiting for us, her eyes asking: "Where is she?"

Today, Cassie no longer has cystitis. Not because time has erased everything. But because together, we found a way to live with what we’ve lost.

She still sleeps near the door of Phoebie’s room. She spends hours there, as if keeping watch. And sometimes, when I sing, she turns her head toward that corner of the room, as if listening for an answer.

5. What Cassie Taught Me

• Animals know. They know when something is broken. They know when to be silent. They know when to pray.
• They don’t heal. They transform pain into something else—into presence, into ritual, into love that never dies.
• Phoebie is no longer here. But Cassie still talks to her. Through mantras. Through silence. Through the bond that doesn’t break, even when death comes between us.