Meeting Coco and Chanel

This month, we had to say goodbye to our beloved cat, Coco. She had just turned 21 years and 8 months, and I used to joke that she was sponsored by Duracell batteries.

I found her and her sister, Chanel, under a bridge on the day of my last 3–6 Montessori exam. There was a sign on the pedestrian side of the bridge that said “Sidewalk closed,” but I was carrying one of my heavy Montessori albums (teaching manuals created by teachers-in-training) on my bike and decided to cross anyway.

As I was crossing the bridge, a fluffy red-haired cat, Chanel, appeared seemingly out of nowhere. She walked right up to me and started meowing. I put my bike down and followed her under the bridge, where a small feral cat colony lived—well cared for, with bowls of food and litter. That’s where I met her sister, Coco, who looked unwell. I later learned she had been caught in a fire the month before.

I called the Animal Rescue League to ask about spaying or help for the colony. They didn’t work with feral cats, but they did give me a cardboard carrier. A few days later, I nervously went back and placed Coco and Chanel inside. By chance, I ran into friends whose sister was a vet, and the kittens were seen the next day.

My plan was simply to make sure they were healthy and then release them. But as soon as they arrived at my place, they started purring. They even purred at the vet. I grew attached very quickly and decided to keep them.

If someone had told me that Coco would be the last one to go, I would not have believed it. But she was a survivor.

Chanel passed away in 2016. Coco stayed. She adjusted, as she always did.

Helping Children Cope with Loss

When we brought our son home, Coco was immediately attentive to him. Whenever he cried, she came to get us—as if we hadn’t heard. She stayed close to him, often sitting beside him, watching quietly. She seemed content to have a little brother in the house.

Last January, we learned that Coco had tumors. The vet told us it could be a matter of weeks or months. I started thinking about how we would explain her passing to our son.

Around that same time, he began asking questions about death. I explained simply that when someone gets very, very, very old, their body stops working. He accepted this peacefully, as a fact.

Later, when we listened to music and talked about composers, he would sometimes ask whether that composer’s body was still working.

Over the months, we had many casual conversations about bodies working and not working. When he asked a question I wasn’t ready to answer thoughtfully, I tried not to rush. I would often say, “That’s a good question. What do you think?” and listen.

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I also looked for books that could support these conversations and introduced The Invisible String, which helped us talk about connection even when someone is no longer physically present.

As Coco’s health declined and we scheduled her end-of-life assessment, I knew I needed to prepare him more concretely—that her body no longer working meant she would no longer be with us.

Saying Goodbye to Coco

The week of the appointment, I told him, “Coco is very sick and suffering a lot. On Friday, the doctor will help her no longer be in pain. We won’t be bringing her body home, but her love stays with us, and you can still feel connected to her through the invisible string.”

He asked, “What will happen to Coco’s body when she is dead?”

I told him that her body would transform into love. That we wouldn’t be able to touch her with our hands anymore, but we would still be able to feel her love with us. That her love would remain in our home.

He didn’t want her body to be gone. He wanted her to stay. I told him I understood—I felt the same. I wished she weren’t in so much pain.

I went to the appointment by myself.

When I came back without Coco’s carrier, he understood immediately, became angry, and burst into tears. He told me he didn’t want Coco’s love.

I took a deep breath and asked him if he felt sad that Coco had died and wished she were still with us. He kept crying and said he didn’t want her to die. He wanted her to keep living in his house.

I told him I understood and felt the same. The doctor had said Coco was very sick, and that she helped her so Coco would no longer be in pain.

We cried together for a moment. Then he settled.

Lessons from Coco

Since then, he has carried her with him quietly—bringing her up sometimes, then moving on, the way children do.

Coco taught us a lot about staying, adjusting, and how love continues even when a body no longer works.

She showed me that children can hold hard truths when we don’t try to protect them.

She stayed with us long enough to teach us how to say goodbye. I don’t think I could have done it without her showing us the way first.