The Year of the Cats

To understand the most important thing that happened to me in 2024, we need to travel back to 2018 around Christmastime.

Among the Facebook Memories were photos I took of Tiger on his last day. I had known for at least six years that “this could be the year.” My fear of losing him was so strong because our paths first crossed in 2000. He was an orange tabby who went from living in our garage to sleeping next to me in bed. No matter where I moved, he came along. As other animals came and went, he endured as this tank who would sleep on the sidewalk while looking annoyed at the passing dog. I believed he would outlive everything though, upon turning 18, time had finally caught up. His body was failing and cognitive issues were settling in. 

The day we put him to sleep was difficult for obvious reasons. This was the end of our time together. It was also, symbolically, a loss of connection to the previous 18 years. No other pet that I would own could encapsulate such a formative time. For as much as I had accepted that it was the most humane thing to do, it’s still painful to experience a loss. The only thing that took some of the sting away was exiting the animal hospital to notice that the empty Osh Kosk building across the way was yet another thing that Tiger had outlived.

When you’re processing the loss of a pet, people are bound to reach out to you with familiar sentiments. Among the remorse is this small sense of optimism that one day when the time’s right you’ll find another pet who will love you and help you move forward. 

Some things to consider about this is how I’ve generally felt about my pets. With exception to a number I can count on one hand, all of my cats have been strays. It’s the equivalent of nature’s application form where they show up to my house and slowly whittle down from the ones who will forever be outdoors to the smaller fraction who are comfortable to sleep in the house and, yes, not be a total disaster in the middle of the night. While my love for Tiger has made me especially fond of orange tabbies, I’m also someone who doesn’t wish to recapture the “energy.” I am not Queen Elizabeth II needing an endless supply of corgies. To me, every animal has their own personality and it feels crass to try and recapture it by making one breed the only thing you ever attach yourself to. There needs to be a certain level of coincidence.

Something that surprises me is how little time I’ve had away from a cat who feels like they’re destined to be “mine.” In the wake of Tiger’s passing, Meathead took up the mantle of being the one who climbed on my lap. Despite being distant in his younger years, he would grow to be affectionate and protective. Over time, he became the pet I loved most and while he was much more stubborn than Tiger and more likely to cause problems, he was a tolerable kind of annoying. At most he was kooky, choosing to run laps through the house and pick fights with anyone encroaching on his food dish.

There was one cat that he would come to accept as his successor. While we had a few others who never quite got on his good side, there was a tuxedo cat named Benny. Among our earliest memories of him is watching a panicked kitten try to run out of the house by climbing up the couch and leaping into a closed window not once but twice. He was always a bit of a ditz, but the affectionate nature and abundant curiosity made him a colorful personality. He was the type to demand attention every morning and, when you stopped, would jump to smack your leg for more. He wasn’t afraid to yell. For as much as Meathead was an aging cat (I called the combination “a grandpa with a toddler”), there was this odd acceptance of Benny. I took it as the anointment of the next family cat.

Which brings us to 2023 around Christmastime. As I looked at old photographs, I noticed that Meathead’s cancer had set in a lot sooner than I recalled. I have photographs of him early in his deterioration, back when it could be mistaken as cute. In some ways, it was a coping mechanism, but it would also be some of the final moments that I felt comfortable taking pictures of him. I don’t know if you’ve experienced a white cat slowly developing cancer, but it really is painful. I’m sure it was worse for him, but there is this dread of knowing you’re witnessing someone slowly dying without any ability to stop it. Even as he lays on your lap and purrs, you’re aware of his mortality. You love the time together but, I’m sure anyone who has experienced a loved one with a sickness will say, part of you is so desperate to have it over with. It’s there in the delusion that things could get better clashing with rationality being that it won’t. 

Meathead was 14 years old. Much like Tiger, he had outlived his sibling Bob. There is something to the spirit of a stubborn cat that makes you understand their will to survive. In theory, Meathead could’ve lived another few months before his whole body became consumed. Given that we were a few weeks off of a record-setting 100° week, I fathomed how miserable he would’ve been during those days, especially since other aspects of his health were failing. 

There was something jarring about putting Meathead to sleep compared to Tiger. Whereas the orange tabby was 18 and had developed low energy, Meathead was only 14 and could scale our back wall without any problem. He wasn’t physically weak yet, and I think it impacts your doubt. To this day, I am still conflicted on if I did the right thing even if, deep down, I know he was already reaching the end. For as much as the time since has been healing, I can’t help but wonder what a little more time would’ve done. I’m sure it wouldn’t have been much given how his body had deteriorated, but you can never fully escape the irrationality of love.

That day in August 2024 remains one of the most difficult decisions I’ve made this year. Everything has paled in comparison because they’ve meant significantly less than Meathead. In some ways, it has made it easier to take those risks because I know I’m capable of tackling a difficult dilemma. 

With that said, the weeks following Meathead’s passing were difficult. For reasons I don’t fully understand, none of the cats were coming around. Even Benny was absent for a few days and only stopped by to have food. I’m unsure what it was, but the world felt emptier without Meathead, and I feared there wouldn’t be that cat who would get me through this difficult time. While Benny would return, the reality was that he was becoming more distant. There was affection, but our house was clearly one stop on his larger list of stops for the day. 

Sometime around July, he came around with a kitten. As one can expect, this cat was shy, maintaining his distance and observing his surroundings. The only time he came out was when Benny was there to serve as bodyguard. There was also that cute play-fighting stuff that cats do as they sat on the porch steps, acting like the front yard was now theirs. It was the type of behavior that made me nickname Benny “Father of the Year.” It especially became funny when some of his behavior was more evasive and sought to abandon this black-and-white tyke.

To be honest, I wasn’t convinced that the kitten would’ve been in the story for long. At most, he would be another one of those strays that just circled the yard, watching you but never letting you get any closer. I think it helped that he watched Benny walk up to me when I put out the food. There were enough times where he was distracted by appetite that I could scratch his back and slowly gain his respect. Even then, he’d sit at a distance and observe. Sometimes he’d walk within inches of your leg, but it would take two or three months before suddenly he was openly suggesting that he was wanting to adopt us.

Unlike Benny who had an arrogance, the cat who would come to be known as Buddy could qualify as smart. Somehow in his few months of life, he knew how to set boundaries. If you told him not to climb on counters, he picked up quickly. Given that he’s still very young, it’s strange to see someone so adaptable. He also received brownie points for being, unlike his father, house trained. It’s an understatement to say how few problems I’ve had with him that aren’t just byproducts of being a young cat with too much energy. 

While he has done very little to match the spirit of Tiger or Meathead, there is something bizarre in knowing that, once again, the cat who meant the most to me came from someplace unexpected. I don’t know what drew Buddy to being my sidekick, but he has quickly become my favorite. It’s especially odd given that Benny was slowly becoming “that cat” before developing a sense of stubbornness and distance that has made him less likable. He’s still a great cat, but it’s clear that he has other things he wants to do throughout the day.

To summarize, 2024 has been a very strange year. I started forlorn with the inevitable death of Meathead and ended with this sense of hope and optimism with Buddy. It’s hard to fully understand how unexpected this phase has been with cats because it all came fast and loose. I’m grateful to have found Buddy, who loves me and brings joy to our time together. There is something powerful about knowing that even as tragedy looms, rebirth is around the corner. While the fear of one day not having another cat who I connect with on a personal level is always there, the fun is in the uncertainty. As ridiculous as it is to say, this is the moment that reaffirmed why life was worth living, why accepting the mystery could lead to something greater. My hope is that 2025 will be even more eventful and less defined by grief. For as much as Meathead’s passing still looms large, I’m noticing a desire to make memories with Buddy. Stay tuned because I’m sure they’re going to be fun.