Cats have saved my life again and again over the years I have been fortunate enough to live alongside them. It feels like the ultimate betrayal, then, to have to make the decision to take one of their lives, but that's what I had to do this week for my Bandit. He was diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma, or oral cancer, after developing a tumor in his mouth, and while I got to have almost five extra months with him after the diagnosis, he deteriorated rapidly in the last few weeks and it became very apparent that it was time to let him go. I took him in on Tuesday and had him put to sleep, and I've been having complicated feelings about it ever since.
He was only nine years old. He should have had so much more life left to live, so many more meals to enjoy, cuddles to give and receive, grooming sessions with Morpheus, my other male cat and his bonded companion. There should have been countless more times when I pushed him off of me because it was too hot or I was too overstimulated, only for him to come right back minutes later, "no" not being a word that existed in his vocabulary. Animals shouldn't have to go through these things. They're such pure and innocent creatures, and Bandit in particular was overflowing with love. He didn't share it with many humans, but when he did, he did it with his entire existence.
He started his life in my parents' back yard, part of a feral colony of cats who lived there in 2015 and 2016. My mom managed to catch him in December of 2015, because he was tiny and it was freezing and she was worried about his ability to survive out there, but she's more of a dog person than a cat person, so she brought him to me. I already had Morpheus, and I wasn't sure I would be able to handle a tiny feral kitten. For the first month he spent with me, he hissed at me every time I passed his food bowl, wouldn't let me touch him, and would only play with me if I used a wand toy and kept my hands a good distance away from him. The internet cautioned me that this might be all I would ever get from him, that he might never be a cuddly lap cat and might always prefer to keep me at a distance. The internet was wrong.
Over the years, Bandit became the biggest cuddle monster I have ever encountered. He was the very definition of a lap cat, sometimes pushing my laptop out of his way so he could curl up on my lap in its place. He slept with me at night, on my feet or pressed against my side or sprawled flat on top of me. He spooned me during the day if I happened to be lying on the couch. He headbutted me in the face if he wanted anything, from food to love to playtime. He purred like a little motor. He soaked up any attention he could get, not from most people, but from me and my roommate, Elijah, and from an ex and one friend who made an occasional visit. He was the sweetest boy, definitely a lover, not a fighter. He was tiny when he first came to me, so much so that I could feel every one of his ribs, but by the end of his life he had grown to be a truly gigantic and majestic man.
I didn't get the time I should have gotten with him, but I was so blessed to get the time I did. His impact on me was as enormous as his physical presence. I am so grateful that I got to love him and that he considered me someone worth loving in return. I know that I'm always going to question if I did the right thing for him in the end, if I should have let him go sooner or if I should have waited longer, if I could have given him a better quality of life, if I should have tried to have the tumor removed and done the subsequent radiation, if I owed him every second I could have potentially given him. I don't believe that taking another living creature's life is a thing I should be allowed to do. It's not a choice I should get to make. This is something I have wrestled with for months and continue to wrestle with even now that it's done. But ultimately I know how big my love for him is, how strong our bond was, and I know that I did the best I could with what I had. Everything I did for him was done from a place of care and with his happiness and well-being in mind, and it was so clear by the end that he was ready to rest. Maybe I could have kept him alive longer, but it would have felt cruel, and I'm trying to let it be enough that I was able to give him that final gift of peace, to end the pain he was in before it completely consumed him. I have to believe that he knew how loved and cherished he was and that even in those final moments, I was holding him close in my heart and thanking him for the gift of those nine years I did get to spend with him.
I don't know what I believe about the afterlife, for humans or for animals, but I have to believe that he's happier now. Freer. No longer in pain and no longer exhausted by living through it. I have to believe that he forgives me for making that final decision on his behalf. I loved him so much, and still love him, and will continue to love him. I'm glad I was able to do this at a time before his memory turned painful, so his last days and his death weren't traumatic for either of us. That's as good as it gets in situations like this, I think.
As someone who doesn't always value my own life, who often can't motivate myself to care for myself for my own sake, having cats has been truly lifesaving for me. Even if I can't be bothered to get out of bed to feed myself, I will always get out of bed to feed them, to clean their litter boxes, and even if nothing else brings me pleasure, hugging them close and petting their soft fur and hearing their purrs does. It's not hyperbolic at all to say that they have saved me. Sometimes it's a heavy responsibility and I want to be free from it, but I would never actually trade them for anything. When I can't find anything else to validate my own self-worth, when I don't value myself for any other reason, I know they have chosen to love and trust me, and those things aren't given freely to just anyone, and that means I'm doing sometthing right.
In In Blackwater Woods, Mary Oliver wrote:
To live in this world
you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it
against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go.
And so, I have my marching orders. This is my goodbye to my sweet baby Banddit, October 2015 to August 2025. I will never forget him, but I will do my best to carry him lightly, gently, with love and laughter and as little regret as possible. I will do my best to love myself and my other cats and my people the way he loved me. I will let his memory be a light, a warm blanket. I will try to savor things the way he savored his food, to lean into affection the way he did, with my whole body and soul. There are lessons to be learned from animals if we care to heed them, and this is the way I can keep his spirit alive. I hope I can do him proud.
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