Coming Home to Dixie

This is another difficult update—one I have not wanted to write.

We lost our precious Ragdoll kitty, Finn.

He had just celebrated his first birthday on our Adoption Day—February 26th. It felt so meaningful to us, like it was meant to be. A little life born on the very day our family was made whole. We often said it was a sign that he was meant to be ours.

And for a time, he was.

A few weeks after his birthday, he disappeared.

We don’t usually let the cats out at night, but that evening he slipped past us—quick and quiet—darting out the door when we came back in from letting the dogs out before bed. I called his name a few times before going to sleep, but when he didn’t come, I didn’t think too much of it. Finn loved being outside, but he never wandered far. He always came back.

I expected him to be waiting for us the next morning, sitting on the patio, ready for breakfast.

But he wasn’t there.

That morning felt different. Heavy. Still.

We called his name. Walked the perimeter of the house. Checked his usual spots. After about an hour, something deep inside told me this wasn’t normal. This wasn’t Finn.

We put on long sleeves, boots, and pants and went searching further out—into the woods, through the tall grass, along the road, across the pastures.

Nothing.

No soft meow.
No flash of white fur.
No bright blue eyes looking back at us.

Days turned into weeks.

And now, it has been almost a month.

We are heartbroken.

Finn was the most beautiful, sweetest cat I have ever known. His piercing blue eyes seemed to look straight into you, and his gentle, playful spirit brought so much joy into our home. He had a quiet way about him—never demanding, always present. The kind of presence you don’t realize how much you rely on until it’s gone.

The girls and I keep going back to his birthday—how special it felt that he was born on our Adoption Day. It felt like such a beautiful connection, like he was woven into our family story from the very beginning.

And now, his absence is just as deeply woven in.

There’s something about losing animals that cuts in a unique way. They are part of our everyday rhythms—the small, ordinary moments that make up our lives. The way they greet you, follow you, sit near you without needing anything in return. Their love is simple and constant.

And when they’re gone, that quiet space they filled becomes painfully loud.

We don’t know what happened. That’s the hardest part. The not knowing. The wondering.

But what we do know is this:

He was loved.
Deeply. Fully. Completely.

And having him, even for a short time, was a gift.

Loss has a way of reminding us just how fragile life is. How quickly things can change. How important it is to say “I love you” often—to our children, our spouses, our friends, and yes, even to our animals.

Because none of it is guaranteed.

So we hold onto his memory.
We talk about him.
We remember his soft fur, his playful pounces, his beautiful eyes.

And we thank God for the time he was part of our family.

Because even though he is gone, the love remains.

And it always will.