I Lost My Buddy Today

I put my cat down today.

It was awful...

"A cat?" you say. Yes, a cat.

But he wasn't just some cat. I hate cats, I do. Abu was hardly a cat.

He never attacked anyone, he wasn't psychotic, he wasn't the jerk cat who peered at strangers as if he owned the house they visited.

In fact, he was more like a dog.

He sat on my lap. He let me cradle him like an infant. What cat does that? He'd lay on my chest as I played video games late into the night, purring the entire time, just happy to be there with me. He loved me and I loved him.

Abu wasn't a cat. He was a buddy.

We grew up together him and I. For 13 years we grew up together.

And now he's gone, and I'm left with the guilt of letting him down.

As he grew older, he began losing control of his bowels. Not uncommon for cats, but it was very hard for Katie and I to constantly clean the carpet.

Everything we tried he conquered.

We locked him in a room. He crapped twice and tore up the carpet.

We built him a crate. He escaped.

Finally, unremorseful, we booted him outside. The 13-year-old cat was an outdoor cat for the first time in his entire life.

He battled rain, extreme wind and dipping tempatures into freezing.

I felt worse and worse, but knew had I let him in, it'd be back to the carpet on hands and knees. So instead I sat there and watched him deteriorate.

He grew skinnier and more miserable. He lost his ability to eat dry food.

Wet food is expensive so we tried our best to produce a can a day. It wasn't enough for old skin and bones.

Then he stopped drinking water... and we knew it would be soon.


Last night at 1am I took the dogs out to go to the bathroom. Abu didn't come running as he ALWAYS does.

I poked my head out and noticed he was laying in his bed with his back turned, still.

I rushed to his side, poking and prodding him. He let out a terrible moan but did not move.

I picked him up in a towel and brought him inside, angry with myself for forcing my little buddy outside. I gave up on him. I turned my back.

I brought him to the chair he used to love and laid him down.


This morning I awoke to find he hadn't moved. Instead he was stiff and motionless.

Unfortunately for all of us, he hadn't passed. It would have been easier that way.

He wouldn't move; he couldn't. We knew the decision we had to make.

Take him to a vet to be put down? Take away the pain and misery? Let strangers take care of it? It sounded awful to let a stranger be the last person to handle him and see him alive. I never dreamt of it before.

Or do we let him wriggle in pain all day as he slowly loses the strength to fight? Who does that benefit besides me?

I was a mess. Simply torn apart. What would you do?


After one last pathetic, gut-wrenching cry, I knew I couldn't leave him to die on his own. Even if it was a warm house in a comfy chair.

So we took him in...

But something happened...

I didn't have the courage to face the public in such a distraught fashion.

And I bailed..

Katie handled everything masterfully on her own as I waited in the car.

The last time I saw him alive was wrapped in dirty towel, limp as a noodle, as I passed him over.

The feeling is awful. It's disgusting. I feel so sad and angry and disappointed.

Disappointed I didn't have the balls to say "screw society and the notion men don't cry" and be there with him as he was put down. Nope. Nothing.

I sat in the car by myself and waited alone as he died all alone.


Naturally, I took a peek inside the box before we covered it with dirt. I was hoping to see a peaceful cat inside. The cat I knew and loved. The big fat, friendly Siamese who never bothered anyone. Instead he looked wet and stiff, his open eyes still glossed over. It was horrible. I hate today. I wish I could take it all back.

All of this over a cat? No.

All of this over a family member whose been by my side through it all. Except for in his passing. When I was absent.