Coping with Pet Loss: Remembering My Soul Cat

I used to hate cats. Seriously. Up until I was nineteen, I was adamantly a dog person. I grew up with huskies and malamutes, after all. My only experience with a cat was a single memory as a child, where I pet one too much, didn’t pick up on the leave-me-alone vibes, and got consequently scratched. I took this one experience as proof that cats weren’t for me. 

Then I went to college. 

During my sophomore year, I moved into a townhouse with two roommates. A couple months in, one of their friends had a dispute with their landlord over their cat, so we agreed to house their cat while they worked it out. His name was Lucifer. A large black-and-white cat with an I-don’t-care-if-you-dislike-me-I’m-still-going-hang-out-with-you attitude. 

Maybe it was his stubborn need for cuddles…or my college loneliness, but that cat single-handedly convinced me cats were the most amazing pets on the planet. 

When his owner retrieved him, I knew what I wanted most for Christmas that year: a cat of my own. 

I did a lot of research. I even bought all the cat supplies one would need for a cat before I was even sure if I’d get one. Then I went to the shelter. 

By then, I had a more specific goal. I wanted a black cat. Mostly because I had read that black cats had the lowest rate of adoption and, because of that, the highest euthanasia stats. But I also loved black cats because my favorite superhero Sailor Moon had Luna. 

Wouldn’t it be nice to have a Luna of my own?

That’s when I turned the corner and met eyes with Bogart. I knew he was the one. Despite the fact that there were numerous other black cats in the shelter that day–including three other black kittens from his litter–I insisted he was mine…and I was his. 

From that day forward, we were truly inseparable.

A nineteen-year-old English major who had no idea what she was doing…and a little black cat with marble green eyes. A cat who had originally been abandoned on the side of a highway in a closed box, he now rode in my lap as I drove back and forth from college to my dad’s to my boyfriend’s (now husband’s). He took to the road like a champ. He didn’t need or want the carrier. He loved perching his paws on the window and peering out at the world as we zoomed down the highway in my RX8, his litter box in my trunk.

We were a goofy sight. Little kids often waved at us. Drive-thru baristas always giggled and offered pup cups. I’ll never forget the toll booth lady on the Kansas turnpike scratching Bogart beneath the chin as she momma-lectured me about driving into town on a Monday at 2 AM. 

Bogart and I basically lived out of my overnight bag, and he was perfectly content to tough out the rough edges of college with me. Wherever we were at night, he always slept on my pillow, and if I had my space heater on, he made sure to curl in front of it, so that I got no heat. I didn’t mind. He was my best friend. My only friend at times.

You see, Bogart came into my life during a tectonic shift in my social life. I struggled with a depression so steep, I had a difficult time connecting with anyone. 

But I had Bogart. 

I’m not sure I could’ve handled my loneliness without him. 

I gave him the love that I wished someone could give me that I was also incapable of giving to myself. I poured that love into him and I watched that love thrive. Outside of me, but by my side. And he loved me back. 

He was my soul cat. 

When I went to class, he sat in the window and waited for me to come home (or sometimes my roommate would invite him into her room to watch her hamsters). At night, he’d sit on my lap while I wrote 50-page essays for my various English courses. When one of my roommates unexpectedly died, there we were again–separated from everyone, but still together. 

No matter what sort of tragedies came my way, I always had Bogart. 

After I graduated, he continued to sit on my lap or at my feet whenever I was writing novels. He was there when I got my first book deal. He was there when I got my first freelance gig in publishing…and he was there when I started working at Penguin Random House. He was so happy to be able to sit on my lap when I started working from home again. (He really loved the pandemic lockdown snuggles.) 

In fact–to be 100% honest–I’m writing parts of this while he’s still alive. As I’m writing this paragraph, it’s January 3, 2025. Bogart is sleeping on my feet as I write about his life. In two hours, he will be gone. I’m writing partially because it’s how I cope, partially because I love writing with him, and partially because I know I won’t be able to write this once he’s gone. 

I’ll surely be a puddle of myself for a while. 

This morning, I gave him his favorites: olive oil sardines and my leftover cereal milk. Last night, he had some mac & cheese. Rare treats that I now wish I gave him more of during his life. Withholding treats didn’t prevent his diabetes.

I don’t know why or how he got diabetes. Truly, I rarely gave him treats. My best guess? He developed crystals one year, and our vet prescribed Hills C/D MultiCare Diet Food, and now there’s lots of complaints online from pet parents whose cats developed diabetes after being on it. He was on that diet for a few years before I took him off. I’m sure there’s also a genetic factor. 

But I’ll never really know. 

All I know is that I feel like he’s been robbed of a few more years of life. 

Bogart is only 14. I am–was–really unprepared to lose him this soon. I truly believed we had another 3-7 years together. (Boo Boo, my husband’s cat who was also Bogart’s best friend, lived to be 22. He passed away in May of 2022, and Bogart never really recovered.)

Shortly after Boo Boo died, Bogart developed diabetes. Despite vet visits every other week for over a year and daily insulin, we couldn’t get his numbers under control. Then he developed hyperthyroidism and lost 4 pounds in 3 weeks. He approached stage three kidney disease, and became completely incontinent. I have been carrying him to and from the litter box every hour for two weeks. After he peed all over himself (and me while I was carrying him), we tried painkillers to extend his life for a few weeks. But the medicine made him worse. 

That’s when I knew it was time to let him go. While researching options, I came across the phase “one week early is better than a day late.” My husband also really regretted how long we stretched out Boo Boo’s death. Boo Boo was dragging his legs before we let him go. Truthfully, my husband stretched it out in the hopes of Boo Boo getting to meet our daughter, who was due that autumn. But fate wouldn’t last that long. Boo Boo passed away in May of that year. It hurt–a lot. 

In Bogart’s case, I’m so grateful he got to meet Winnie. My first cat baby meeting my baby daughter. He barely left my side when I was postpartum (even if he was glaring at me to pet him while she slept instead of letting me sleep). He was actually the first cat to let Winnie pet him. He would purr whenever she pet him, too. Now, they hang out all the time. I’m not sure how you explain death to a two-year-old, but I guess that’s something else I’ll go through before you even read this. 

At this moment right now, I’m remembering a time in 7th grade. I was in debate, and the teacher assigned controversial topics to us at random. I got euthanasia for people. Embarrassingly, I asked my teacher “What’s Youth in Asia” have to do with controversy? (I was 12, please forgive me.) Once she corrected my dumbass, I still remember researching the story of a woman with a football-sized tumor in her stomach, who moved to Oregon just to pass peacefully (and not bankrupt her family in the process). Ultimately, I won the debate, but I never felt good about such a sad topic.

There’s an irony in it all–purposely rescuing a black cat because of the heartbreaking euthanasia statistics, only to come to the point in his life where it became a mercy. 

His next step, according to our vet, was a seizure or stroke within the next week or so. He was actually lucky to still be walking. Almost all the muscle in his back was gone, and his back legs were weak. He was also going blind. 

Since making the decision, I hold onto the phrase “A week early is better than a day late.” I don’t know if I fully believe it. How can I–the most trusted person on the planet to him–make a decision like this without his input? What would he want? He can’t tell me, of course. He’s a cat. 

All I can think about is what I would want. 

I hope whenever I die, I get the opportunity to pass peacefully–and I hope I get to see Bogart again. 

In the end, I had a vet come to our home, so that Bogart could pass at home, comfortably, painlessly, and with me by his side. The vet let me know that Bogart already started to die the moment sedation was given to him. He was very weak, and he passed very quickly. It’s one of the only facts I hold onto, knowing I might have prevented a more painful passing. 

Losing a pet is a uniquely horrible loss. 

Loving him made my heart bigger. I held onto hope easier. The world feels darker and smaller and sadder without him. 

I know it is a fresh loss. As I’m writing this sentence, it’s only been four days…and I know I need to give myself the same grace, patience, and love I used to be able to give to him. 

But now that love hurts.  

He was one of the most stable relationships of my life. Bogart was actually in my life longer than my mother. She died when I was 11. Bogart was in my life for 14 years. I’m not comparing the losses, necessarily. Every death is unique and raw and ugly. But losing a cat is not just losing a cat. 

I’ve definitely lost a piece of my family. My heart. My soul. 

But I am so grateful I had him in my life. 

In 2010, I rescued him on Christmas Day. He slept in the Christmas tree, his big green eyes full of wonder. It is painfully fitting that he closed his eyes for the last time beneath our Christmas tree on Friday, January 3, 2025 at 12:23 PM.  

Rest in peace, Bogart. Life was better because of you.

I may have rescued you from the shelter, but you rescued me in so many other ways.

You will forever be in my heart. 

~SAT

P.S. Due to Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I won’t be posting on January 20. I’m hoping to have my next post up on Monday, February 3, but I’m obviously sad right now, and I’m trying to extend myself grace for a bit. I hope that’s all right. ❤