She would have turned seven on February 27.

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

Not because she had to.

Because she wanted to.

Nawty always stayed close to home — to our home. She never let go of the bond we had built from the very beginning. And I didn’t either.

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

Nawty was a fighter from the beginning.

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

She had earned rest. Safety. Home.

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

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

She slept on my chest her last night.

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

And she was gone.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She was my Nawty. And she was everything.

Many blessings to you and the souls you carry in your hearts.