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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.
My tuxedo cat, Roger died last month from kidney disease. By the time I knew he had the disease, it was too late. He was the sweetest cat, and we loved each other unconditionally. I regret not doing more for him and not spending more time playing with and loving on him. The short life of our furr babies are precious. Enjoy them while you can.
I had an entire meltdown over this and wrote a massive message about my baby but I’ve recovered for the time being so I’ll keep it simple and try to remain calm. Lucky, a Russian blue british shorthair mix, was the prize of my life, the first friend I had from the day I was born to the May 30th, 2017, when she passed at 19. She wasn’t beautiful to most, but she was the cutest thing ever to me; wide set, short stubby legs, a harsh meow because she never learned from her mother and I guess it became a habit. We found her when she was 2 days old in a tire in 1997/98 (I don’t remember, I was born 2000). She cried for me to come to bed at night and slept on the pillow above my head. I would sacrifice 7 billion lives including my own to see her soft gray face and big green eyes again. She made everything so much easier for me.
My cat died, he is my best friend and I have had him since I was in grade 1, I’m in highschool now and I can’t imagine a time without him. I’m so upset that I haven’t stopped crying. It feels surreal because his death was so sudden, one moment he was a happy cat and the next he was gone. The night before he died he looked up at me with huge eyes that said so much. I had gone camping for six days with my family, I got back late afternoon and loved him up. I thought that the look in his eyes was just that he missed us, I never knew that I would find his lifeless body under the car the next morning. I feel empty inside and regret every moment I did not spend with him.
I was depressed for over two months when my dog died. The only thing that somehow alleviated my pain was getting another dog… But that dog will die too one day.
I recently lost my cat this weekend. He was only three years old yet he was by far the best cat I ever had and I had cats ever since I was young.
Who knows maybe the next one I’ll have be really good to but I doubt it. It’s rare for me to get a liking to my animals but this cat was playful and always purring. It hurts because he was so young. I had others cats but they died much older than this. I feel cheated of my time with him. He was ran over and hopefully he didn’t suffer too much when he died.
He was the best and reminded me of my dog that died last year, both were good friends… What a shitty way to go… At least my others cats and dogs died of cancer, not ran over by a psycho.
I lost my own best friend recently and I know how you feel. Reading your story brought back all of those feelings and I cried. He had lived a good life but I felt if I’d done something I could have saved him. My sweet cat and best friend, Clark. I’ll never forget him and I’ll never really heal, even after a year I haven’t.
This put me to pieces. I love my cat, who I’ve had since he was a kitten, and can’t imagine life without my best pal. It’s beautiful where you buried your little guy. Much love from me and mine to you and yours.
I lost my tabby Smokey yesterday.. can’t stop the tears from pouring.. at home, at work, while driving..all the time> He was givin away 10 years ago and I adopted him as he spent all his two years of life at the shelter.. was always with me at bed time, at the desk, at the couch, in the middle of the night .. always asking for either stroking his head or belly, or food..he used to look me in the eyes and I get the message.. was very peacefull, quite, and accepting whatever available.. he suffered from severe constipation.. twice in his life wsgivin injection under the skin to solve the problem, but this time the vet said after xray there was no way to clear all this bulk and he would suffer more.. and advised to give him the needle.. I approved to relieve him from such pain and spend his last munites looking at me and purring.. I feel guilty, when I’m alone Iburst in hysterical crying mumbling “I killed him.. I killed him” I wish I can get him back and try other ways to cure him..but..it was done..goodbye mye best friend, it’s hard to die..hard on me now most..!
Hello: I am a friend of Liz’s and she suggested that I read your post after I told her that our sweet kittie died on March 19th. She is buried in our garden and we will transplant her beloved cat mint plant over her body once spring comes and we can find it! Gotta love an indoor cat who dutifully wears a purple collar and leash to go safely outside for a little kittie-kat-high. She was my daughter Lindsay’s cat. Lindsay is 13, Katie-the-kat was 11 – she doesn’t remember life without her. Thank you for sharing your grief – it comforts me to know that I am not the only one crying until my face hurts – I think I need plastic surgery to repair the new crinkles left from crying. Sigh. Arent’ we lucky to have had these delightful animals to love us so?
Hank,
Just read this. I am so so sorry. My cat Harold is the love of my life. He holds court over a sheepdog and border lollie (lab/border lollie mix). Three weeks ago Harold went missing. I was devastated. He had never been outside for more than 4 or 5 hours. Luckily he returned two days later just as I was assuming the worst. Pets truly are a blessing. I often like them better than people. I hope you’ll be able to open your heart to another creature soon.
Addie
My heart goes out to you. I know the pain, I still mourn my Susie after 3 years. Not much I can say to help other than my heart goes out you. They just don’t live long enough for us to give them all the love we have for them.
Bless your heart – I’ve tears in my eyes from reading your tribute to your dear Paka. I hope you find peace.
I’m so sorry for you. I feel your loss, as I had Sierra-the-Dog, and Kramer-the-Super-Cat pass this summer. I still miss them both so much.
May we both heal and live in harmony.
oh Hank, so sorry for your loss and your anguish. I think about our border collie Sasha oh so many times even though she has been gone almost 6 years… hard to believe that before her I never felt I was a dog person. Of course she wasn’t a dog but a hairy person as our son Todd used to say when he was younger. When I held her in my arms at the vet (she had several tumors that surrounded her heart and lungs) when they put her to sleep, I felt the life travel out of her and up my arms. I guess I was so emotional (I do remember that I was grieving loudly) that the vet sent me flowers the next day.
I read Holly’s post and then yours. She was one lucky cat. She truly blessed you and Holly with her presence.
I have always had a cat in my life and I truly, truly understand. glg
Hank –
I have lurked around your site for many months but last night I left in tears. Your Paka could have been the sister to my Dicca who left us just about 3 years ago. She was 19 and the end was not all it could have been, at least from where I am. Don’t be ashamed of your tears, you loved each other and we grieve for all those we love. She will leave a Paka shaped hole in your heart forever. But you will learn to look beyond those bad hours and remember all the good days, months and years that you had together.
Oh, and don’t push away the other girls in your household, human and feline, when they offer support. Even the most independent cat will know you are hurting and try to offer a paw. In their own way, they are family too. My hugely outdoor, feisty Blonde moved in to keep me company during the tearful weeks that followed.