Missing June is like a constant, throbbing bass note in a song. Everything reminds me of her, every day a struggle. I have lost two cats in two months, and that’s too much. At least Henry Etta had a long life – the vet said she was very old, and she died in her sleep, peacefully – but June wasn’t even three years old. She was glowing with health and beauty and had her whole life ahead of her. I battle through the days, keeping busy, but at night, when I finally stop, the grief monster catches up with me.