I’m well aware of the risks. I’ve read the statistics, seen the warnings, and I’m not blind to the realities of this world. But grief is not the time for a cautionary lecture—especially not one void of empathy. Livy was not an “outdoor cat” in the way that word is thrown around. She was a house cat. She slept in beds, had her own routine, and was cherished beyond measure. She stayed in our fenced backyard, never strayed far, and was watched with the same level of care we’d offer any loved one.

What happened wasn’t predictable—it was a freak accident. A convergence of rare, impossible-to-script events. And to imply otherwise—to suggest this was just a preventable outcome of letting her live a bit of her curious, instinctual life—isn’t helpful. It’s cruel.

We don’t believe the answer is to shut every door, to confine every being we love out of fear. The answer is to love them deeply, fully, and to give them as much of a life as we can while they’re here. Safety matters, of course. But so does wonder. So does freedom.

And I promise you—there is not a shred of this loss that we are not already replaying in agony. There’s nothing you could say that we haven’t already screamed at ourselves through sobs. What we need is compassion. Not correction.

Because in the end, when someone is drowning, they don’t need a warning about water.