Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Miss you so, so much Scooter Crunch...Will never be the same without you 😭 #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet

Big Purrs 🐈🐈 - Miss you Scooter ☹️ I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #pet #catsoftiktok #heartbroken #rainbowbridge #fyp

Little Paws, Big ❤️ - Miss you Scout 😔 I've started and stopped writing this more times than I can count because nothing feels big enough for what Scout meant to me. Calling her my pet feels ridiculous. Best friend is closer, but somehow that still doesn't cover it. My dad rescued Scout around 2014. She was already an adult, half-starved and stubborn as hell. Before he finally caught her, he'd seen this tiny cat repeatedly fighting Canadian geese. That was Scout. I didn't meet her until December 24, 2019, when I came home after serving five years in prison, including about 18 months in solitary confinement. I came home with severe anxiety and PTSD, almost no money or clothes, and no fucking idea how to live a normal life again. My parents had prepared a bedroom for me. The only problem was that Scout had apparently decided months earlier that it belonged to her. She wasn't thrilled about me taking over. A couple weeks later she started sleeping at my feet. Then on my chest. Before long, she was beside me almost every night. Scout didn't know anything about prison, PTSD or anxiety. She just knew I was her person. A few months later COVID locked the world down, so Scout and I spent it together. We watched The Simpsons, The Sopranos, The Wire and God knows what else. We shared snacks. When I went outside, Scout came with me. Then I met Erin. Scout came with me when we moved in together and watched us build our entire life. She slept beside us, traveled to Myrtle Beach, spent months with us in the RV in Maine, and was there through the worst days and the best ones. She was just there. Every fucking day. Then Scout got sick. Erin and I fought like hell for her, but eventually loving her meant doing the one thing I desperately didn't want to do. Scout spent much of her final day outside, one of her favorite places. My dad—the man who rescued her all those years ago—came to see her. And she spent part of that afternoon where she'd spent so much of the previous six years: in my lap. She died peacefully in my arms. That's all I want to say about her death, because Scout's death isn't what I want to remember. Her life is. When we buried her at home, I wrapped her in an old dark-blue hoodie. It was the hoodie I bought at Walmart on December 24, 2019—the day I came home and the day I met Scout. I had almost nothing then, and for months it was practically the only hoodie I owned. Scout slept against it, laid on it, and knew it from the beginning. Almost six years later, I wrapped her in that same hoodie. The hoodie came home with me on the day Scout and I met. And Scout took it with her when we said goodbye. Scout was there when I came home with almost nothing. She was there while I learned how to live outside prison again. She was there when I met Erin and while we built our life together. She traveled with us, comforted me through loss, and shared thousands of ordinary days I'd give anything to have one more of. She wasn't my pet. She wasn't even just my best friend. There probably isn't a word for what she was to me. She was Scout. That starving, stubborn little cat who once survived by fighting fucking Canadian geese ended up changing my life. And I'm going to miss her for the rest of mine. I came home. You were there. Our story: December 24, 2019 — September 15, 2026 #fyp #rainbowbridge #heartbroken #catsoftiktok #pet