She would have turned seven on February 27.

But Nawty wasn’t just a pet. She wasn’t even meant to stay with me—not at first. I rescued her when she was just two days old, her eyes still tightly shut, her tiny body fragile but warm. Her future was uncertain. She was meant to be released when the time was right—meant to return to the wild where she was born. And in many ways, she did. She was released several times throughout her life. But each time... she came back.

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

Nawty always stayed close to home—to our home. She never let go of the bond we built from the very start, and I never did either.

One spring, she returned with a purpose. She was pregnant. She came back to give birth, not in the wild, but in the place she trusted most—with me. I watched her deliver her kits. I watched her raise them—gently, fiercely, patiently. It was the most incredible experience of my entire career as a wildlife rehabber. She was a mother, a survivor, and something more than I can ever truly describe.

Nawty was a fighter from the very beginning.

She survived distemper—a devastating illness that nearly took her life and left her with permanent neurological damage. She endured poisoning. She withstood attacks from predators in the wild. Time and time again, she clawed her way back to life. Until the world finally agreed: she was no longer releasable.

She had earned her rest. Her safety. Her home.

So she stayed inside with me. For nearly five years, we were each other’s shadow, each other’s heartbeat, each other’s world.

People talk about the bond between humans and animals, but the words never seem to do it justice. Nawty wasn’t just “a raccoon.” She was my soul companion. She understood me in ways no one else could. Her presence calmed the loudest parts of my heart. Her touch reminded me that even in pain, we can choose connection. She needed me, yes. But I needed her more than I can ever truly explain.

The night she passed, she slept on my chest.

I woke up to find her still curled there, her body warm and still. She looked up at me one last time, licked my chin, and then… she took a few slow breaths.

And she was gone.

She slipped away quietly, in the place she loved most, in the arms of the one who loved her beyond measure.

Now, my heart feels hollow. The house is too quiet. My routine is broken. I walk through rooms expecting to see her, to hear the soft shuffle of her little feet, to feel her climb up to perch on my shoulder or snuggle into my lap. But she’s not here.

And still, somehow, I know she hasn’t truly left.

She’s woven into every part of my life—into my habits, my memories, my laughter. Into the lessons she taught me about resilience, trust, and unconditional love.

There will never be another like Nawty. She was wild and free, and yet she chose me—again and again. In a world where so much is fleeting, her love was a constant.

To all of you who’ve known a love like this, who’ve had to say goodbye to a piece of your soul in fur, feathers, or paws—I see you. I grieve with you. And I thank you for allowing me to grieve here too.

Thank you for welcoming me into this space. Thank you for letting me say her name.

She was my Nawty. And she was everything.

May blessings be with you and the souls you carry in your hearts.