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We buried our cat Paka this evening in the garden, next to a grapevine.
She was 15 years old, which is 76 in people years, but it still seemed too soon. Lots of cats live into their high teens. Some crack 20 years even. I wanted to grow old with my girl, to take care of her. But now she’s dead. I feel like a failure, like I’ve let her down.
Paka had an abscess no one knew anything about, and it was so bad they needed to put her under anesthesia. The vet said they’d do blood work to make sure she could take it, but I guess they did not reckon on her heart, which had had a murmur her whole life. I rushed to the vet after work Friday to get her — I did not want my girl spending the night in a strange place — and she seemed woozy but OK; she was a lot like I was when I came home from surgery in December.
Saturday she ate, took her meds and seemed to be on the mend. But by Sunday morning I knew something was wrong. Paka hid herself under the couch and was having trouble breathing. Panting is a sign of pain, so we wrangled her into position to give her pain medication. Afterward, I reached under the couch to pet her, and she cupped her head in my hand, looked at me and purred. She didn’t want me to stop. I didn’t want to stop. Sweet girl.
What we did not know then was that her breathing was labored because she was getting fluid in her lungs, and her heart was giving out. Paka knew she was dying, and wanted to be with me before she went.
But to my everlasting regret, we didn’t realize this at the time. We even went out foraging for a bit, my first trip since my injury. When we came back a couple hours later, Paka was in worse shape. She was barely responding.
It’s funny how we can hold things together only just so long. We got her into a carrier and swept her to the vet, which is a couple minutes away. I was OK. Calm, even. Maybe Paka was having a reaction to the medicine. Maybe she was going to be all right.
She wasn’t. Just before five o’clock, the vet told us to come in fast. When they’d taken her off oxygen to prepare her for a trip to a nearby emergency room, Paka stopped breathing. They put her on a ventilator so we could see her one last time. I looked into her eye, and she looked scared. I was scared, too. She died on the table, soaked in our tears.
I held her, sobbing, for a long time. We took her home and put her in a box with a soft towel. We sat there, stroking her fur, until the sun went down. And then we sat in the dark.
Even now, I can’t stop sobbing. I am a grown man, and I still can’t stop sobbing. My face hurts from so much sobbing.
Paka was much more than just a cat. I got her as a kitten, just a few months old, from a crazy cat lady in Bayport, Long Island, in the spring of 1996. I picked her out because she looked a little like a cat I’d had earlier named Gomez, a cat I lost when I broke up with my girlfriend at the time — she was a vet tech and could take better care of them than I could.
But I wanted a companion of my own. I lived alone then, although I was seeing the woman who, for a time, would become my wife; Jen was with me at the crazy cat lady’s place, and she chose a cat she named Savannah, because she looked like a cheetah. I named my little cat Paka, which means “cat” in Swahili. I actually named her Paka Potea, which is a Swahili pun. “Pata potea” means the same thing in Swahili as “so-so” does in English. I tell you this because that’s the origin of our other name for her — Tater — which comes from Holly calling her Paka Potato. Funny how we give our loved ones lots of little names.
For years, it was Paka who greeted me when I came home from work every night. For years, it was just me and her. Like butter and bread. I fed her everything and anything, especially fish bits. I was fishing a lot at the time, and Paka got all the stray parts. Of the three cats we live with, Paka was the only one who ate fish. She might have gotten a little rotund — OK, a lot rotund — but she was Falstaffian in her loves. Lots of food, lots of love and lots of sunshine.
Every morning I had to find where the sun would hit and make sure some fell on the floor for Paka to pick up and play with. She’d roll back and forth for a while, then sleep purring for hours.
I have hundreds of stories about her, but the best is that of our journey from Virginia to Minnesota. Holly had left some months before, and I packed all my belongings into a U-Haul truck and set Paka in a carrier on the passenger seat, facing me. It was a 1,200-mile journey that was about to be made longer: The power steering gave out in Hagerstown, Maryland, and with it the air-conditioning. It was July.
Add to this the unhappy coincidence that every goddamn hotel between Ohio and Illinois was booked up, and you have a recipe for a cranky man and a cranky kitty. We drove through, non-stop, with only an hour’s nap break on the side of a road in Indiana somewhere. But Paka was a gamer. After an initial bout of yowling, she just sat there and looked at me, mile after mile. Every now and again she’d stick her paw out to touch my right arm. She was the sweetest cat ever.
By the time we reached St. Paul I was exhausted, and so was kitty. When we reached the apartment, I threw myself on the bed to sleep — and Paka hid underneath. When I finally woke up, I could hear her purring.
I’ve known a lot of cats. Most are nice, but a little aloof. Our pretty tuxedo princess Harlequin is a lovely cat, but she comes and goes as she pleases and could do quite well by herself outside; Harlequin is more of a colleague than a pet. And little Giblet is very much Holly’s kitty: They dote on each other all day long. No cat was ever like Paka. She came when I called. She knew her name. She knew to never wake me up in the morning. She’d eat anything.
All she wanted was food, water, and to be near me. And now she’s dead.
I know some of you are wondering how it is that I can be so wrecked by the death of one animal when I hunt to kill other animals. Is it a contradiction? Maybe. But I am in no place to coldly analyze it now.
All I feel is hollow, gutted. I was forced to sit for a day on jury duty, and while I was not called, I was surrounded by wretched examples of humanity: Clucking hens. Manipulative, wife-beating, white-trash lowlifes. Mad, Jesus-howling black men with Bibles and accusing looks. I’d give a hundred of their miserable lives to hold Paka one last time, to feel her warmth, to see contentment in her eyes, and to hear her purr, that Harley Davidson purr of hers. It will stay with me forever.
We decided to bury Paka next to the grapevine. It is in a corner of the garden, in a place I can see if I look out my kitchen window. And it is in the sunshine. Paka loved sunshine.
I will miss you, my sweet. I love you. Goodbye.
Holly loved Paka very much, too. Here is her sweet story of our sweet kitty.
Dear Hank,
I’m really sorry to hear about your sweet kitty. You were lucky to have her, and she was lucky to have you…
All best,
Margo
Words escape me right now, Hank. I’ve been in your position too, and even after about 4 years, I still choke up each time I see my little Scarlett’s dish and collar sitting on a shelf. I just couldn’t stand to get rid of them. She was a little mutt, probably beagle and corgi; a strange mixture, and an odd, but precious little dog. I loved her like another child and losing her was heartbreaking. My sincerest condolences.
I am so, so sorry. I have been where you are and it effing sucks.
You have my sympathy.
I lost Bonny almost three years ago. I had gotten her the summer I turned 11 and she was my best friend and constant companion until she died when she was 15 years old. She had been with me half my life at that point. I still talk about her like she’s still alive, telling people who never met her funny stories about “my dog”.
It takes time to get used to the empty space, but be kind to yourself.
Take care!
You’re a stronger man than me, sir. I lost my dog about 2.5 years ago, and there’s still NO WAY I could’ve written this post. I commend you.
Hank, I’m so deeply sorry. All I can say is that I’m certain she knew how loved she was, and that it’s so important that you give yourself time and allowance to grieve. Please know you’re not alone. It will take a while for the house to feel normal — the sounds, the way the air feels. And when you do start to feel better — and you will — please do let yourself.
What can I say but thank you to everyone. Your stories and shared grief both for your own lost loves and our kitty that most of you never met make us feel a little less alone.
Tonight was the first night I’ve come home with no one to greet me; Holly is still at work, and even though Harlequin and Giblet are somewhere inside, the house seems cold and lonely. Paka should be standing there in front of me, yowling for her dinner, but she’s not.
I hear the click of her claws on the hardwood floor. I see her out of the corner of my eye. Last night, as I was falling asleep, I thought I could hear her purring. I awoke with a start, but it was only a distant motorcycle.
Laying out only two bowls of cat food will take some getting used to. But I am leaving Paka’s spot open — the three cats eat separately.
Slowly I am crying less. Your comments and stories, especially the kitty buried with the piece of cantaloupe, brought it all back, but it is cathartic. Mostly I am just tired and sad and quiet right now. I’ll get better soon, though.
Hank,
I’m so sorry for you both. Losing a pet is one of the worst things to experience in our lives. Pets are so loving. And so unconditional. And so accepting. They love us for what we are, and they don’t judge. I think that is what makes them so great.
I wish you and Holly the best in the next few weeks and months, and I hope that time starts to heal the wounds.
Rest in peace, Paka. You will definitely be missed.
I’m there with you bro, ( remembering “Big Kitty”) and glad you are doing the important rituals and eulogizing.
You have touched us all with your post and love for Paka and shown that this is what makes us truly human and apart from other species – to be uniquely able to love and to domesticize animals and (if we are lucky) have it returned.
What a lovely and moving tribute to your beloved Paka. There is nothing that hurts like losing an animal friend, probably because there is nothing like having one. My heart is still raw from holding one of our beloved dogs when he died years ago. Luckily we have other four-leggeds to keep things warm and wild and smelly and golden. Wishing you comfort and a million sweet memories of your girl.
Hank – I am so sorry for the loss of your friend. Sending you my warmest thoughts, and hoping that the happy memories of Paka will help ease the pain of this difficult time.
I am sorry for your loss. I lost my dog Cody, a Border Collie, 5 weeks ago today. He was without doubt the best friend I ever had. I cried when he died and still get tears in my eyes when I think of him. I miss him so much, I hate to go home from work because I still expect to see him greet me. I know exactly what you are going thru and my sympathies are with you.
I’m so sorry to hear about Paka – I know how much cats become a part of your family, and it really upset me to know that you’ve lost a long-time friend. This post has really touched me, and obviously a lot of other people, and it’s a beautiful tribute to your cat. So sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry.
I’m truly sorry for your loss
My condolences and best wishes to you. I had to have my one-month-shy-of-20-years-old Siamese put down in January. She had a cancer of the salivary gland and it was time. She hadn’t been to the vet in 5 years and maybe if she had gone in earlier the cancer could have been caught and treated. The only thing she wanted in life was to be next to me, if not on top of me or in my lap. Almost 20 years of her purring and affection. My vet (and a dedicated goose hunter) once told me when he was in vet school a six-year-old cat was considered a ‘senior.’ Now cats & dogs live to be really ancient and that seems to increase the grief of losing of them. I’m crying now thinking about her and share your sense of loss. You didn’t let her down. You gave her a great ’76 years’ of life.
I’ve always had a thing for gray cats, Hank. Whenever I ran into Paka at one of your parties, I always stopped and made sure she received a good scratch behind the ears. She was a great, great, great cat.
You will go on to have other cats — that I can assure you of. But you’ll probably never have another Paka. They are unique. Once they are gone, they’re gone.
I am deeply sorry.
Bill
I’m so sorry you lost your sweet girl. I know that hollow feeling well having lost my Tiger after having him for 15 years. When Tiger went to sleep, the vet’s office sent me a condolence card that read:
Grieve not, nor speak of me with tears
But laugh and talk of me as if I were beside you…
I loved you so, ’twas Heaven here with you.
– J.P. Richardson
That brought me comfort – I hope it does that same for you and Holly.
Hank,
My thoughts are with you and Holly. Both of you wrote such beautiful tributes of your friend; it’s so easy to see how much love you all shared. Be blessed with your memories and take comfort in the love you learned.
hugs,
Teala
I am truly heartbroken for you. I remember a couple years ago my childhood dog had to be put down. To this day I regret that I didn’t go see him before they did. I couldn’t get up the nerve. I am happy that your cat got to spend her last moments on this earth in the arms of people who so obviously loved her.
I read Holly’s post, cried, then came here and read this only to cry some more. I keep remembering putting our 17-year-old calico girl down a couple of years ago. It was the only time I saw my father cry, and even now just the memory of him putting the empty cat carrier in the car breaks my heart. There’s never enough time with them.
She sounded like a great cat, my condolences.