Feb 20, 2026
It has been a tough month. On January 22, I took my cat Data to the vet after noticing he had lost weight, his coat was getting ragged, and he seemed to have difficulty eating.
My initial concern was dental, but his teeth were fine. He was instead diagnosed with hyperthyroidism and started treatment. He got worse almost immediately and a possible gastrointestinal issue was suspected. Eventually, we discovered a mass in his inner ear. But by then it was too late. It had already caused nerve damage.
Data is now blind in his right eye and has little control over his tongue, so he cannot eat properly despite having an appetite. He’s frail and bony, weighing only 7.5 lb — down from a normal 11 lb. I remember when he used to be over 13 lb and I wanted him to lose weight. I would be beyond thrilled if he could be that chunky again.
Data is only 12.5 years old, which is senior but still somewhat young to be passing away (in human years, it’s equivalent to about 66). But I have seen the age creep into his face, and I have dreaded his death. Almost exactly 1 year ago, I had a huge crying fit about losing him and my other cat, Merlin.
I knew it would hurt badly when the moment came, yet despite this, I have been utterly hammered and staggered by the emotion. It is even worse than I imagined. Somehow, I love him even more than I realized, and I knew I loved him tremendously. It feels unreal.
Four years ago, my ex-wife cheated on me and left me over the phone. I sold the house I thought I would live in for the next 30 years. Her friends, who after years of hesitation I had finally begun to accept as my own friends, treated me badly. I had to say goodbye to our dog Millie, who I had proudly trained, named, and loved with all my heart. I moved out of state. We fought over what little money I had for almost a year.
I mention all this because it was, in short, a very difficult time. And yet, the prospect of losing Data feels sadder than the divorce ever did.
He was my first pet, rescued from the side of a highway when he was a kitten barely bigger than my hand. I got him a few months after my parents’ own separation and I stopped talking to my dad. Consequently, even though I was 22 at the time, it feels like Data has been with me my whole adult life.
Over the past 12 years, he has moved with me six times, and has been the most constant thing in my day-to-day. He lets me cradle him, he climbs on my shoulder, and every evening when I go to bed, he sits on my chest to give me head boops. He shows an enormous amount of affection and trust toward me. I feel so privileged for that.
Even now, he still climbs on my shoulder, and lets me nuzzle him with my head. Thanks to steroids and painkillers, he has just enough energy for it. Yet tomorrow morning, he will be gone.
One key part of this whole experience is guilt, but not the kind you might think. There is, of course, remorse over all the things I could have done differently that may have averted this situation. But the greater guilt is over a failure of empathy.
I know people who have experienced losses at least equivalent to my own, or even greater. Yet I did not feel for them the sorrow that I feel now for Data and for myself, and frankly would have struggled to imagine it in them. I think that is probably normal, but it still fills me with a sense of shock, regret, and shame that it seems so difficult to truly and intimately connect with others without having first lived through similar experiences.
If the loss of a cat can make me feel like this, I cannot even begin to grasp the vastness of the suffering that must fill the world. It is crushing. Whoever you may be who has gone through this, I am so sorry.
