This story is shared by our customer Lisa N., a 48-year-old woman who found a touching way to keep her cat “Pumpkin” close to her heart during Thanksgiving after his passing.
I never imagined Thanksgiving without Pumpkin. For the past fifteen years, my sweet orange tabby cat was as much a part of our holiday as the turkey and pie. He had a habit of curling up under the dining table, right by my feet, whenever the family sat down to eat. I’d feel his little paw on my shoe, a gentle reminder that he was waiting patiently (or not so patiently) for a bit of turkey to fall his way. He was more than a pet; Pumpkin was family, my companion through an empty nest and the quieter years of midlife. So when Pumpkin died in early autumn, just weeks before Thanksgiving, I felt a dread for the upcoming holiday. How was I going to get through it without his warm presence by my side?
In the days after losing him, the house felt so still. No jingling collar following me to the kitchen. No soft meow at dawn, insisting I wake up (Pumpkin was always an early riser, even if I wasn’t!). I spent those first weeks in tears, quietly folding up his favorite blanket and framing a photo of him that I put on the mantel. It might sound odd to those who haven’t loved a pet like this, but Pumpkin truly made our house a home – especially for me. My two kids are grown and live states away, and my husband’s been gone for three years now. Pumpkin filled a space in my heart that otherwise would have been lonely. He seemed to know when I was missing my kids or feeling down; he’d hop onto the couch and nuzzle into me, purring as if to say “I’m here, Mom.”
As Thanksgiving approached, I felt that loneliness deep in my bones. The thought of that empty spot under the table hurt so much. I found myself dreading the holiday I used to love. One afternoon while I was going through some of Pumpkin’s things, I discovered a small tuft of his fur I had brushed out last spring. I had an idea – a way to keep a part of him with me. I remembered a friend of mine mentioning she’d gotten a pendant to keep some ashes of her dog. I hadn’t cremated Pumpkin (he was buried under his favorite oak tree in the yard), but I did have those clippings of fur and the tiny tag from his collar.
I ended up finding a pet memorial necklace – a simple silver heart with paw prints on it – that holds a small memento. With careful hands, I placed a bit of Pumpkin’s fur inside the tiny compartment. It made me cry, but for the first time since his passing, these were not purely sad tears. There was a touch of comfort there, knowing I could carry a physical piece of him with me. I remember clasping the necklace around my neck and whispering, “Now you can be with me, my boy.” The pendant rested right above my heart. It was a heavy, reassuring feeling.
On Thanksgiving Day, I woke up early (no surprise – I half expected Pumpkin’s meow alarm, out of habit). The house was quiet, but I could almost imagine him weaving around my legs as I began prepping the turkey. I had invited my sister and a couple of close friends over for dinner. They all knew how important Pumpkin was to me. In fact, the last few years, everyone in the family would bring a little treat for him to our gatherings – a bit of salmon, a new toy – spoiling him was a part of our tradition. This year, my sister brought flowers and, gently, a candle to light in Pumpkin’s honor. We placed it on a side table in the living room, right next to a picture of Pumpkin with a miniature pilgrim hat (yes, I had once made him pose with it for a laugh). Seeing that small flame flicker by his photo, I felt both sadness and warmth.
Before we sat down to eat, I did something I hadn’t planned. I took Pumpkin’s favorite toy mouse – a raggedy little gray thing he loved – and I set it on the chair next to me at the dining table. That was supposed to be my husband’s seat, and after he passed, it kind of became Pumpkin’s spot (or at least, he liked to hop up there when dessert was served!). It might sound silly, a tiny stuffed mouse on a chair, but to me it was like saying: this place is still yours, buddy. My throat tightened, but I didn’t feel as alone.
All through dinner, I wore Pumpkin’s necklace. I found myself fiddling with it often – rolling the little heart between my fingers whenever my emotions swelled. At one point, as we each shared something we were grateful for, I touched that paw-print pendant and said, “I’m grateful for fifteen years with Pumpkin, who brought so much love to my life.” There were tears in a few eyes around the table, including my own, but they were gentle tears. Everyone raised a glass in memory of my dear cat. It’s strange, but in that moment I swear I could feel Pumpkin’s presence – like a warm spot of sunlight over my shoulder. Maybe it was just my imagination, or maybe it was the comfort of having something of his so close to me physically, but it felt real. It felt like love.
After the meal, as we cleared plates and started packing leftovers, I caught myself looking down, half-expecting to see Pumpkin weaving between our legs hoping for dropped turkey. He wasn’t there – at least not in the way I wished – but I did feel a sense of peace that hadn’t been there before. I went out to the porch for some air, the evening chill setting in. Instinctively, I wrapped my fingers around the pendant. The metal was cool, but I held it until it warmed in my hand. I thought about all the Thanksgivings Pumpkin sat out here with me, watching the leaves blow around the yard after everyone had left, just him and me rocking on the porch swing. This time, I was alone – but I wasn’t. I had a part of him with me. I closed my eyes and said a little prayer of thanks for Pumpkin’s life, and for the comfort I was given to get through this day.
My first Thanksgiving without Pumpkin was hard, no doubt. There was an ache that no amount of holiday cheer could fully erase. But looking back on it now, I realize how crucial those small acts of remembrance were. Lighting a candle, setting out his toy, and especially wearing that cherished necklace – these things turned my pain into something bearable, even meaningful. Instead of feeling only the emptiness of him not being there, I felt his spirit present in subtle ways. My family later told me that talking about Pumpkin openly, and seeing me wear that memorial pendant, actually made the day more heartfelt for them too. It was as if Pumpkin still had a role in bringing us together.
The necklace I wear is more than just a piece of jewelry; it’s a tangible connection to my Pumpkin. On the hardest days, touching it reminds me that love doesn’t end, it simply changes form. This past Thanksgiving, it helped me remember that I haven’t really “lost” Pumpkin – I carry him with me, in my heart and in this little emblem resting on my chest. And you know what? That night, after everyone had gone and the house was quiet again, I didn’t feel quite so alone. I sat by the fireplace with a slice of pie and felt a soft peace around me. I imagined Pumpkin purring in my lap like so many times before.
Grief is the price of love, they say, and I’ve learned how true that is. But thanks to that cherished necklace (and the love and understanding of those around me), grief made room for gratitude. Gratitude that Pumpkin graced my life for as long as he did. Gratitude that I found a way to hold him close even after he was gone. And gratitude that on a day meant for giving thanks, my heart found comfort in remembering rather than just in mourning. Pumpkin’s place at the table will forever be saved in one way or another – in a candle’s glow, in a shared story, in the little paw print pendant I wear. His memory will always have a seat in my life, and for that, I am thankful.
