Lament for my cat Jacob, 2015-2023

Jacob died suddenly six months ago. I have not been able to cry for him. This is a long, sad account. Don’t let it stop you from looking after cats.

For the six and a half years that he was mine Jacob was the sweetest, most affectionate, least fussy cat I knew. I had plenty of silly nicknames for him, and he put up with them, the way he put up with my constant demands for hugs even if he was fearful of being carried. He gave head butts and boops and would plop down on my pillow. Often I woke up to find him sleeping in the crook of my arm. Of all my cats he was the one who slept next to me, warding off insomnia and guarding me from nightmares.

I remember when I first noticed him. He was a little orange and white kitten, all fluffed up and hissing at a larger cat who was menacing him. Later I heard that he’d been run over by a car, but the janitor had massaged his injured leg so he could walk again, but with a slight limp. This limp did not prevent him from climbing onto tables or playing with the people walking by our street. One day I saw him wrapped in telephone wire—some jerk had tied him up. That’s when I started to consider adopting him to keep him safe from cars, contagion, and general assholery.

And then on March 19, 2017, a Sunday, while I was at a weekly dinner with friends, I replied to some emails from a reader who needed advice on adopting a cat. A street cat had become attached to him, and he found himself worrying whenever the cat wasn’t around. I encouraged him to go ahead and take the cat into his home, now knowing that I was really convincing myself to adopt Jacob. (Who adopted whom is a topic for debate.) When I got home that night Jacob was hanging out with the other cats downstairs, and as I gave the cats their dinner I told him, “If I get paid this week, I’m going to adopt you.” The previous year I’d quit writing columns to write a novel, which I’d postponed long enough. I was surviving on freelance work, my income was irregular, and I was already living with two cats—Drogon, aged 5, and Saffy, 17. A third cat was added responsibility for an underemployed writer.

The very next day I got paid for a travel show I’d filmed the previous year. I kept my promise and took Jacob to the vet for a flea bath and deworming. At the end of the week I had him neutered. The night before the procedure he was not allowed to eat anything, so I put him in a big cage I borrowed from a friend. He cried all night and kept bashing his face against the cage. Drogon and Saffy eyed him curiously.

And then he was totally ours. Drogon trained him in the ways of the indoor cat and Saffy, who was cranky with age, accepted him into the family. Jacob had an enormous appetite and a lot of curiosity. Writing is a solitary activity and the best company in solitude is cats. The cats watched me write. Whenever I was glum the four of us would huddle together in the room and everything would be better.

I would’ve lost my mind in lockdown if it weren’t for Jacob. Sometimes I got grumpy and pushed him away whenever he demanded to be fed immediately, now, five minutes ago, but he held no grudges. Maybe because he had some difficulty walking Jacob was not adventurous, preferring to stay put in his favorite spots. We had this game we played whenever I was about to go to sleep. I’d say, “Come to the blanket dimension!” and throw the blanket over us. He would sit very still under the blanket with me, as if we were alone in another universe.

During lockdown I had to take him to the vet twice, and while nothing out of the ordinary happened I recall them being very intense occasions. In September 2020 he had a toothache (he would jump up and yowl every time he ate) so I brought him to Dr Wil the cat dentist. He absolutely hated going out and carried on as if he were being abducted. We were at the clinic by 9am to queue up with all the animal welfare volunteers who were having rescue cats neutered. Around noon Dr Wil confirmed that Jacob had to have teeth taken out, and his operation was scheduled for 5pm. By 6pm Jacob was still in surgery. When the nurse brought him out to the waiting room he was sound asleep from the anaesthesia, and we had to wait till he woke up and walked around before I could take him home. (This is so we would know there were no ill effects from the anaesthesia.) He looked so sweet sleeping in his basket, and did not budge when I squeezed him so he would wake up faster. It took over an hour before we could go home, and then he was furious and wobbly. That’s all, but I remember feeling happy and safe at home with my cats. The pandemic was raging, but in our house everything was fine.

The second time was in May 2022, when millions of people were dazed at how little they knew their own country. He had a rash on his neck which I said—not entirely jokingly—was from absorbing my stress. One day I saw that he had scratched it red and raw and decided to take him to the nearest veterinary E.R. We sat in the waiting room for an hour. Apart from a few meows of protest he was very well behaved, and when the nurse weighed him he was a heavy 10.5 pounds. He was surprisingly calm in the consultation room as they collected samples for analysis. The vet said it was an allergy and prescribed an antibacterial ointment and an antihistamine which made him sleepy every night. The rash cleared up in a few days. I made him wear a flower-shaped Elizabethan collar so he wouldn’t scratch his neck. All was well in our universe.

On April 7 this year I noticed that Jacob had lost weight. He was still a heavy boy, but he was eating with his usual appetite and there was no reason for the weight loss. The next day he started crying as if he were in pain, and refusing to eat. It was the long Lenten break and our neighborhood vet was on holiday. I remembered Saffy’s toothache prescription and gave Jacob the medicine, diluted, in a dropper. He calmed down, ate his dinner, and had a good sleep. The same thing happened on Easter Sunday and Monday. On Tuesday I took Jacob to the vet, who saw nothing wrong with him but took blood samples to be sure. I told him Jacob was refusing food, so he gave him a vitamin supplement. When I took Jacob home he hid under a shelf. He wouldn’t eat, so I hand-fed him with a dropper. The next two days were a struggle, with Jacob hiding from me and me trying to feed him.

The blood test results arrived on Thursday. They were largely normal, but there were indications of a bacterial infection, nothing to be alarmed at. Our vet said it could be treated with meds, but Jacob would have to stay in the clinic. I said I could give Jacob his meds at home, but he said Jacob’s vital signs had to be monitored. There was a black spot above his lip that I thought was grime from rubbing his face under the shelf where he’d been hiding. I agreed to have Jacob confined, a decision that is going to haunt me forever.

I visited Jacob every day. That weekend he wasn’t eating so the vet started intravenous feeding. The vet assured me Jacob was not in pain. I still believed he would get better. If I had known how sick he was I would’ve taken him home. I would’ve stayed with him, given him something for the pain, let him drift off peacefully surrounded by family. But I didn’t know anything.

On Monday when I visited him the spot above his lip had become a large black sore. What was that black sore, where did it come from? The vet suspected squamous cell carcinoma—cancer—but he did not have the facilities for a biopsy, or for chemotherapy if it came to that. Would I let Jacob undergo the treatment? Could I afford it? Would I have to make the horrible choice that people with cats and dogs have had to face, and have him put to sleep?

The next day I went to my friend’s library to do some work. I wanted to leave early to visit Jacob, but my friend told me to stick around, and like an idiot I did. Less than an hour later I got the worst text I have ever received. Jacob had died at 3.45pm. My mind went blank. Without thinking I booked a car to the clinic. My sweet ginger cat was lying there, but he was gone. I should’ve cried, I might have felt better. In the days that followed I was a zombie. I gave two talks and wrote my chapters in an oddly disconnected state.

His last photo

It took me a while to feel again, and when I did I was furious with myself for allowing Jacob to die alone in the clinic. He must’ve been so terrified. The stress must’ve made him sicker. I should’ve noticed his sickness sooner, how could I have been so neglectful? Why wasn’t I watching him in the clinic every minute?

I still haven’t been able to cry for Jacob. I blame myself for not keeping him alive. Logic has nothing to do with it. What else could I have done? What else can I do? Do I stop looking after cats so I would not have this pain again?

Again I wondered how my life would’ve turned out if I hadn’t started adopting cats. I’d have fewer responsibilities, less anxiety over their health. But where would I put all this love? You have to put your love somewhere or else it turns rancid and bitter. That is even sadder than loss. I tell myself that I gave Jacob the happiest life he could’ve had. It doesn’t make me feel better about my failure. I continue to take long walks and feed the cats on my route. I imagine that they’re all Jacob.