Since I work from home his death permeated my days. I was so accustomed to my morning routine of first feeding him then making coffee, that for a few days I actually forgot to make the coffee. When I wanted a break from writing, I’d spin around in my chair to look for him. Sometimes I’d hear the imaginary clickety-clack of his nails on the hardwood floors. It was hard to escape things he’d left behind, too: toys under the bed, little bags of catnip scattered about, cat treats on both the nightstand and the kitchen shelf.