Cookie wasn’t my cat. She was a parting gift from my ex—left behind like an unpaid bill or a forgotten sock under the bed. I didn’t choose her. She was dumped on me, and I never let her forget it.

From day one, Cookie made it clear that she didn’t care for me either. She cried at all hours, wouldn’t let me pet her, and hissed if I got too close. She skulked around the house like she was doing me a favor by existing. But the real kicker? Cookie shat in the tub.

Not once. Repeatedly.

I don’t know if it was a protest, some twisted feline logic, or just a personal vendetta, but there I was—scrubbing cat poop out of the tub, wondering what I had done to deserve this. Friends  laughed when I told them. “Oh, cats can be weird like that.” Weird? No, this was targeted harassment.

I tried everything. New litter boxes, fancy cat sand, those pheromone sprays that supposedly calm anxious pets. None of it worked. Cookie remained as aloof as ever, occasionally locking eyes with me as if daring me to do something about it.

I thought maybe she’d warm up to me. After all, I was the one feeding her, cleaning up after her, and putting up with the late-night meow concerts. But no. She stayed just out of reach—close enough to remind me she existed, far enough to avoid any affection.

Years passed, and Cookie remained the uninvited roommate I couldn’t evict. I’d catch her loafing on the windowsill or curled up in a sunspot, looking peaceful. And for a brief second, I’d soften. Maybe she’s not so bad, I’d think. Then she’d jump down, walk past the litter box, and crap in the tub.

Then came the move.

I was upgrading apartments—somewhere new, fresh, and free of the ghosts of relationships past. But when I thought about packing up my life, I realized I couldn’t bring Cookie with me. It wasn’t that the apartment didn’t allow pets. I just… didn’t want her there.

I felt guilty for never liking her, and guilty for feeling relieved that the end was near. The thought of Cookie pacing around my new space, yowling in the middle of the night, and christening the bathroom with more tub poops was enough to push me over the edge. I made the call to the vet.

The vet gently suggested euthanasia, I didn’t hesitate. I knew it was the right thing to do—for her and, honestly, for me. But as I sat with her during those final moments, something unexpected happened.

She didn’t fight me. For the first time, she let me hold her. There was no hissing, no darting away—just a tired cat resting in my arms. It was the quietest she had ever been, and in that silence, I felt the weight of all those years.

After it was over, the house felt different. Quieter, but not in the way I expected. I thought I’d celebrate the newfound peace, but instead, I found myself listening for the cries that would never come again.

I don’t know if Cookie ever liked me. I’m not sure she ever forgave me for not being the person she wanted—her original owner. But I hope, in some small way, she knew I tried. Maybe not perfectly, and certainly not always kindly, but I showed up for her, even when I didn’t want to.

Sometimes, life hands us responsibilities we never asked for—messy, inconvenient, and loud responsibilities. Cookie was all of those things for me. And while she may not have been the cat I wanted, she was the cat I cared for, in the only way I knew how.