Cat

My cat Pedrês, who I’d had for just about half my life, passed away this afternoon. Unless you’re very new to this blog, you’ll have seen him many times — he was, even with my having moved away a few years back, a very big presence in my life. Between his illness and some other less public forum appropriate stuff, I’ve been really out of sorts these past few weeks.

His death was not unexpected, and the truth is that I’ve been sort of writing these words in my head for some time now. Putting things into sentences, articulating them to myself, has always been how I cope. And yet the knowledge that this loss was coming coexisted with a fierce hope that wasn’t so much optimistic as it was a survival tool. I said goodbye to him on Sunday, having managed to fly home for one last long weekend with him, but I did not dare to call it that. What I saw during this last visit wasn’t pretty — between my trip home in late May and now, he had lost 800g, which is a lot for a small and elderly cat. It broke my heart to see him trying to climb onto my bed as he’d always done and failing. He wasn’t in physical pain, and recovery wasn’t beyond the realm of the possible, but he was frail enough that it was unlikely. Whatever slim hope I could muster and grab onto furiously was what allowed me to walk out the door and make my way to the airport on Sunday evening.

My cat liked yoghurt and cantaloupe. He was afraid of strangers but he never, ever scratched. He hated the song “This is the Dream of Win and Regine”. He was born in a house with five children and spent his early months there; he was always a people’s cat. He used to sulk and snub me for up to a week when I came back to him after being away, but as I reached adulthood and my absences became longer and more frequent, he decided we’d make the most of whatever time we could have together instead. From then on it was wild purring and lap-climbing from the moment I walked through the door. I try to follow his lead in many things in life.

I’m trying to resist the urge to list more details that might make him come alive for you; that could conjure this particular cat in the minds of whoever reads these words. In the end there’s probably little point in trying to convey what made my cat special or this loss so hard: he was special to me, of course, but this is “as unoriginal as any other tale, as unique as any other life.” Some of you, I suspect, will know what I mean straight away. If not, all you have are my words trying to do justice to this small tragedy and all the reasons why his death is a devastating loss for me. Words are all I have, but words are imperfect.


All I can say is this: my cat and I had a strong, close tie. I’ve loved (and mourned) many animals in my life, and I’m sure I will again. But I’ll consider myself exceedingly lucky if I ever forge another bond quite like this. I’m trying to take comfort in stories that remind me that we continue to have a relationship with whomever and whatever we lose; that absence changes but doesn’t erase these ties’ significance or their roles in our lives. I’ll know and love other animals, but I’ll spend the rest of my life loving around this particular cat-shaped hole in my heart. In the end this is the hardest thing of all: the fact that there’s now a lot less love in my life. I feel diminished. I could do with any human kindness you could spare.