Farewell, Rebecca—Love, Loss, and Rainbow Bridges

Reading time: 10-12 Minutes

REBECCA

Every neighborhood has that one cat. The one who shows up like a random glitch in the universe, but somehow carves a permanent space in your heart. Ours was Rebecca—also known as Rebekski, Madam, or occasionally, "Hey! That’s not your food!"

She wasn’t just a cat. She was a street comedian. A black-furred menace with loud meows, confident walks, and zero sense of boundaries. She’d roll on the pavement in front of joggers like she was on a red carpet, shamelessly begging for attention, daring you not to fall in love.

We met her a few years back, just a few houses away. There was this little cat gang that ruled the sidewalk—Rebecca was clearly their PR Manager. Dia selalu paling depan buat nyapa kami tiap jogging: meow duluan, gulung-gulung duluan, minta dielus duluan. It was our little evening ritual. Kadang dia nyasar ke halaman rumah, tapi langsung diusir sama Mpus, our full-time-sharing-custody cat and part-time bouncer.

From the moment Rebecca entered my life, there was something quietly magical about her. Her presence felt like a missing piece that finally slotted into place—natural, seamless, and a little bit fated. She reminded me so much of Jiji from Kiki's Delivery Service, with a hint of Luna’s elegance from Sailor Moon—both sassy and endearing, both always a step ahead of your emotions.

I’d always dreamed of having a black cat ever since I met Jiji in that film. And when we moved into this neighborhood, watching Rebecca grow from “the cat around the corner” to someone I saw almost daily… it didn’t feel random. It felt written.

And somehow, amidst all my quiet obsession with her, Rebecca became the very first cat my husband ever officially let us adopt. The first yes. The first she’s ours now moment. And from that point on, she wasn't just the neighborhood cat anymore—she was part of our story.

And then one day, she disappeared.

Weeks passed. Then months. Her absence became routine. Sampai satu hari, we found her again—across the park, far from her usual spot. But this time… she was different. Thin. Hollow. A ghost of the cat we used to know. Her fur had dulled, her bones jutted out, but somehow, her energy—her spark—was still there.

We started feeding her again. Sedikit demi sedikit. Then one night, she showed up at our house. Just stood there, like she was saying, “So… can I come in now?”

Of course, we said yes.

Rebecca officially became our rescue. Our first formal adoption. The first cat my husband agreed to take in. We made a warm little corner for her. Gave her space, love, real food, safety.

And she flourished.

Within days, her fur started to shine again. Her eyes lit up. She started doing her usual dramatic meows, playfully asserting dominance over the other cats. (Mpus was not amused.) She began to trust us—slowly. Cautiously. But it was real. And I remember thinking, “This is what home looks like.”

She would follow me on walks. Sit with me on the sofa. Even bite my fingers (gently?) while being hand-fed. Her scar is still on my hand. She would inhale 100 grams of shredded chicken per day like it was an Olympic sport. She drank water like a true hydration ambassador. She marked her litter box with pride. She was loud. She was lively.

She was ours.

Then came the silence, just in few days after she settled in.

One day, she stopped eating. Lying behind the sofa, refusing to move. We brought her to the vet, hoping for simple answers. But nothing was simple. Her condition declined fast. And when the bloodwork came back, we got the sentence:

Feline Leukemia Virus. FeLV. Her neurons deteriorated. She couldn’t swallow. Couldn’t walk. We tried—meds, hydration, nutrition. Everything. But the spark began to fade.

Still, on the last day, when we visited her at the vet—she purred.

Just once.

It was loud, sudden, and it wrecked me. Seolah dia mau bilang, “Thank you. You can let me go now.”

So we did.

I held her face. I stroked her chin. I whispered goodbye.

And we buried her under the tree in our backyard, wrapped gently in my navy-and-white cotton fabric. It was the same cloth I used to sew napkins and aprons. Now it became her final blanket.

Questioning Myself

Setelah itu, seperti banyak dari kita yang pernah kehilangan… I spiraled.

Could we have saved her sooner? Was there something I missed? What if I had insisted to adopt her back in 2021, the first time I fell for her? What if we brought her to the vet a week earlier?

What if.

Grief carries its own logic. It throws questions like stones—aimless, painful. I still hear her meow in the back of my head. I still haven’t cleared her litter box. It feels wrong. Like she might need it again. Like maybe—this was just a strange, long nap.

I walk past the spot where she used to curl up. Still half-expecting her to stretch and yawn, demanding food she won’t finish. My hands remember her weight. My shirt still has traces of her fur.

Where is she now?

These questions haunt me, wrapping tightly around my heart in moments I least expect.

I think I’m going through the five stages of grief in fast-forward, then reverse. Denial. Anger. Guilt. Bargaining. Depression. Repeat. I haven’t reached acceptance yet—but maybe I’m circling around it.

Finding Comfort in Rainbow Bridge

As some of you might know, just a few days ago—literally less than a week—I found myself revisiting the Rainbow Bridge poem while thinking about my old pet, Jagger. I had no idea that I would be reading it again this soon, this time for Rebecca. Life moved quicker than my heart could catch up.

And as a Muslim, I believe that every creature we love in this dunya eventually returns to dust. But their prayers for us live on. They remember. And one day, they will testify to the love and care we gave them—bearing witness to our deeds on the Day of Judgment.

So yes, the Rainbow Bridge is just a metaphor. But in moments like this, it means more. It softens the grief. It offers a picture of peace—that our beloved pets, too, have a place to go. A gentle afterlife, where they wait. Whole again. Joyful. Running free.

"They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.

You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart."

Another passage that brings me comfort is from the Qur’an, in Surah Qaf (verse 35), where Allah promises, “They will have whatever they wish therein, and with Us is more.” A similar reassurance comes in Surah Yasin (verse 57): “For them therein is fruit, and for them is whatever they request [or wish].” Both verses remind us that in Paradise, the righteous will be granted whatever their hearts long for—and to me, that includes the presence of our beloved pets who shared our lives in this dunya.

I understand, of course, that not everyone may fully grasp what this kind of loss feels like. The depth of connection. The non-verbal love. The unfiltered joy our pets give us, even when they’re being stubborn little gremlins who make no sense. It's a bond that exists outside of logic—and yet, when they're gone, the absence speaks louder than words ever could.

Our pets weave themselves quietly into the fabric of our lives, and when they go, they leave paw prints on our hearts that no time or distraction can erase. If you know, you know.

Grieving Loud, Loving Louder

To cope with the grief of losing Rebecca, I found myself rewatching a TED Talk on pet loss and mourning. The speaker said something that hit me right in the chest: “Grieving a pet is a unique and valid process. It’s essential to honor that bond and give ourselves space to mourn.” And then she asked a question I’ll never forget:

“If your pet is a rescue—did you save them, or did they save you?”

That question broke me. I let it. I allowed myself to ugly cry and sit with the weight of it all.

My husband tried to console me, saying, “She came home to us because she trusted you.”

And she did.

Even in her final hour, she stood up on shaky legs and looked at us one last time. It felt like a silent, complete thank you. The kind of goodbye that leaves no room for regret, only gratitude.

Now she rests peacefully in our backyard, wrapped in my navy and white checkered cotton fabric. The same kind I use when I sew. A small piece of me with her. Her final nest.

As we said goodbye through tears, I couldn’t help but imagine her crossing the Rainbow Bridge—a gentle place where beloved animals wait for their humans, healed and joyful once again. That image stays with me. Not just because it’s beautiful, but because it gives shape to a hope I choose to hold on to: that pain and love don’t end here. That somewhere beyond this, she’s running again. May Allah, in His infinite mercy, allow us to be reunited with them in Jannah—whole, healed, and wrapped in eternal peace.

In Loving Memory: Rest in Peace My Dear

Rebecca was chaos. Warm, beautiful chaos.

And even in her absence, she fills our home. Her story is not just about loss—it’s about love, resilience, and the quiet way animals teach us how to be better humans.

So here's to you, Rebecca – a furry ball of love and laughter. Thank you. For showing up. For staying. For trusting us. For loving us loudly, even when you had every reason not to.

May you rest in eternal sunshine, in a garden full of chicken and trees and weird crunchy things to chew. Until we meet again, insya Allah my dear friend.

You are missed.

You are loved.

You are home.