As I write this, my attention is drawn to a white cardboard box that lies in the middle of my lounge table. About the size of a small shoebox, the name Gingy Yaxley is written at the top in a permanent black marker. Inside is a thick cardboard tube that contains the ashes of my cat. The fact that something that brought us so much love and happiness could fit into such a small space seems to defy the fundamental principles of Euclidean geometry.

My beloved cat passed away at the start of the year. Unfortunately, it occurred only a few days after I wrote an article about him for this magazine. He was moving a little more slowly than usual and started lowering himself to the ground to breathe. All his life, Gingy had run around the house like a drunken Usain Bolt, crashing into everything. But now this once-frantic feline was starting to wane. I was a little dismissive at first, blaming it on ageing. However, there was clearly something wrong with him. When he tried to jump on me, his legs gave way, and my worst fears were realised. Shelley was correct — when my cats are not happy, I’m not happy. 

One thing you immediately miss about a cat is the physical connection

When we called the local vets, they offered us a prompt appointment. A chest x-ray showed fluid had started to build up in the lungs. We were told to prepare for the worst, and subsequent testing would provide more information. A seven-day course of medication was prescribed, to be followed by a check-up. He had not eaten much for the past few months. I could feel his bones when I took him out of the pet carrier after we got home. My girlfriend bought him some special paste, which he accepted with alacrity. Things began to improve. For a few precious days, I had my old cat back, the one who would go crazy at the sound of the ice cream van driving by and paw at my leg when he wanted affection. 

One thing you immediately miss about a cat is the physical connection. He started sleeping at the top of the stairs by himself. It brought back memories of my mother telling me about her dog’s tendency to hide when he was dying, believing it was done to avoid upsetting her. During the week, I would wake up in the middle of the night to check on him. I turned on the landing light nervously each time, hoping to see him still alive. He would raise his head slightly and give that distinct chirp, the same one he would give if a bird flew past the window. 

The night before we were due to return to the vets, I went and sat with him, naively thinking he would suddenly spring into action, tearing down the stairs as he always did when the doorbell rang and we could cancel the appointment. Deep down, I knew time was against us, and we only had a few hours left together. I held him close as the sun rose, the distinct smell of his fur etched forever in my memory. 

We both agreed that if he showed little sign of improvement, we would have him put to sleep. A signal was agreed as we thought it would be less painful. How wrong we were. The results concluded he had pulmonary edema and heart disease. Best diagnosis? A few days, possibly a month. I had just agreed to end the life of one of my best friends. 

A silent head nod between us confirmed it. An unspoken emotional understanding. When the vet brought him back in, he looked so scared, especially with the catheter protruding from the bandage around his front right paw. This is an image that I will always have with me. I was having trouble speaking. Everyone has an idea of saying something profound or beautiful when they are faced with death. Reality has a way of stealing your happily-ever-after moment. A meek “goodbye, my dear friend” was all I could manage.  

… here I was, in front of a busy road, crying uncontrollably over a cat

I started moving toward the exit, my legs beginning to feel like concrete. The receptionist asked me if I was okay, as I was staring at the doors in some kind of weird lysergic trance. I raised my hand, made one of those “not now” passive-aggressive gestures, and walked out of the building. I stepped outside and inhaled deeply before turning the corner. After that, I did something that I hadn’t done for years. I cried. I have lost a lot of friends and relatives over the years, including my own father, who battled pancreatic cancer. Barely a single tear marked their traumatic and seemingly random deaths. And yet here I was, in front of a busy road, crying uncontrollably over a cat.

I know, I know — it seems trivial to be upset over a cat. Despite the abundance of death and devastation in the world, I find myself composing a haphazard eulogy for an animal that entered my life by mere chance. I’m not completely stupid; I know that pets are not people. On the other hand, people who own pets are most likely to be aware of human nature. You sign a contract with no expiration date when you purchase a pet. No opt-out clause is applicable. You promise to provide this bundle of fur with food, shelter, and security until the day they die. What you get in return is priceless: unconditional love.

Pets teach us the strength of love and the true meaning of companionship. They have the power to make you smile or frown, particularly if they happen to think your kitchen sink is a toilet. Gingy had the ability to make me laugh and cry — something I haven’t done in ten years. As such, pets show us what it means to be human. And grief is a universal human emotion. 

When it comes to grieving, there is no time limit. Those initial months felt like an empty house. His toys, scattered all over the living room floor, served as little more than a painful reminder of his energetic spirit. For two weeks, my girlfriend cried herself to sleep each night. Then, gradually, things began to improve. We found that we could discuss him without having to pause in the middle of a sentence. Life continued. And we went with it. As Bubbles famously remarked in The Wire, “There ain’t no shame in holding on to grief, just as long as you make room for other things.”

These new “things” are actually two tiny, hyperactive kittens. As it happens, fate is an odd creature. A neighbour came out and invited us inside a few months ago while we were making our way home carrying Gingy’s ashes. She apparently bred cats, one of whom was expecting. It seemed a little poetic that they would be born in the spring. A new life implies an entirely new world of opportunities and adventures. Peanut and Bonkers — I know, right? — can’t take his place. You could never replace a cat that would climb on your face and spread out like a spatchcocked chicken just to burp in your face. Bonkers is living up to his name. The other morning, I discovered him hanging by one paw off my windowsill, just about to pull down the curtains. Peanut has taken to getting my attention by pulling the charger out of my laptop. Cats are still the original gangsters. 

Despite Gingy’s passing, his influence endures. Ironically, I will never be able to own a ginger cat again, which is testament to his renowned gentle nature. I hold a special place in my heart and mind for him as a result. For instance, we decided to get kittens in order to spend as much time as possible with our new companions. If nature is kind to us, we will have twice as much time with them as we did with Gingy. Even if it turns out to be less, I will still be happy.

Rather than pondering over the contents on the lounge table, I am engrossed in watching two kittens playfully chase one another around the room — completely oblivious to what lies ahead.