This is Maro, our beloved cat.
I often receive messages from customers seeking support for pet loss. Sometimes, those who have read my blog ask me about our dear Maro, who has now passed away.
So today, I’d like to share the story of the day Maro left us.
Maro passed away two months after we discovered his illness.
Those two months went by in the blink of an eye. We were constantly taking him to the vet and trying every treatment we could. Our emotions were all over the place—it felt like we were living in a strange, suspended time.
The morning after I took this photo, Maro suddenly lost the ability to walk.
He wobbled over to the bottom shelf—his favorite spot—and lay down.
He tried to lift his body slightly, but it was different than usual.
When I helped him up, he flopped over limply.
I quickly prepared his cat bed and gently laid him down.
He calmed down a little, but I instinctively knew… “He probably has only a few hours left.”
I hesitated whether I should go to work. But in the end, I left the house at my usual time.
Because, just like me, customers who had lost their beloved pets were waiting for me.
My wife sent me a message.
She said Maro’s breathing was getting shallow.
I couldn’t focus on anything.
Even when I answered customer emails and calls, the words didn’t sink in.
I forced myself through each conversation.
I finally told my coworkers what was happening and asked them to take over.
When I rushed home, Maro was already asleep.
He was no longer breathing.
I apologized to him.
I thanked him.
I told him how brave he had been.
I had told my team that the end was near, so they had said,
“Forget about work—go home right away.”
I’m incredibly fortunate to work in a place like this, and I know it’s because we’re a workshop that creates personalized memorial items for pets.
At an ordinary workplace, I might not have been allowed to leave.
Or maybe I would have made up an excuse to go home—but even then, the guilt would’ve remained.
I laid Maro to rest in a cool room and returned to work that afternoon.
Somehow, I managed to keep going.
That afternoon, I received an order from someone who had just lost their pet.
Even though I was hurting too, I knew I couldn’t take time off.
In fact, I think I was able to respond with even more compassion than usual.
On the very same day my own cat passed away, I found myself supporting another grieving pet owner.
It was incredibly painful.
But when that customer thanked me, and I felt I had been able to support someone in pain, I knew—truly—that this work is something I must cherish.
Saying goodbye to a pet brings overwhelming grief.
Yet somehow, it also brings a strange kind of happiness.
That happiness may come from cherished memories or from new connections that follow.
Maybe it’s the final gift they give us.
Maro and me.
These days, I live with a cushion in my arms.
Deep down, I wish I could have been there when he took his final breath.
I regret not staying home from work.
But if it were up to Maro, I know he would have said:
“Don’t worry about me. Go to work and support those going through pet loss.”
That’s the kind of cat Maro was.
