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She was a small black cat, extremely frisky, always trying to get in the door. We had to be careful when going down the stairs because she would dart between our feet. She didn’t have a name, we didn’t give her one, she was just “yung pusang itim”—if we gave her a name she would become part of the household, and we already have three and a half feline housemates (Three indoor cats, one outdoor cat who walks the earth and appears at mealtimes). She lived downstairs in the garage with the other strays, and was particularly close to Meriadoc our outdoor cat—we’d open the door and they’d be curled up in a single ball on our welcome mat.

This morning the guard reported that she’d died. They found her in a corner, by a stack of old furniture. She got sick and went quickly. We last saw her on Sunday night and she seemed less frisky than usual. Sad. Terrible things are happening in the world, violence and bloodshed and body bags, and we mourn over a nameless black stray cat. On balance she had a fairly comfortable life—she had regular meals, shelter, and the company of other cats. And she could roam the neighborhood, though she stayed close to the garage. And her life didn’t go unnoticed.