We all know that death is inevitable. Sorry to start this on such a downer, but it’s true — especially with our pets. I’m sure you all have looked at your pet at least once and whispered to them, “Please don’t die yet.” If you’re like me, you’ve probably even cried about this, maybe even when your pets have shown no sign of health problems. It feels like every week I see a post on Instagram of someone saying goodbye to their childhood pet, mostly coming from other college students. I can’t help but empathize with them and think about what my childhood pet meant to me.
I wasn’t a college student when I lost my cat, Shane. It happened the first week of my senior year of high school. He was there for most of my childhood, so it was hard to lose him.
We adopted him when I was 4 years old. My parents surprised me and adopted him one weekend while I was away at my grandparents’ house. They said they weren’t planning on adopting a cat, but claimed that Shane caught their eye while “browsing” the adoption center. He was only a couple of months old, and I remember him running down the hallway into my arms. I remember he pounced as he ran down the hallway to greet me. He rubbed his head on my back and purred when I pet him, his bushy, dark tail swishing back and forth in delight.
As I grew to know and love Shane, he developed a series of nicknames like any other pet would: Shanie, Smelly and Shlimey (which my grandma used to call him) — and when he did something naughty, like scratch the couch, he was “Shane the Pain.” Like any other cat, Shane had a distinct personality. He loved to be babied, but was also independent and regal. He often jump-scared us as he walked along the fence like it was a tightrope, making his way to the next-door neighbor’s apartment like it was an addition to our home.
Looking back, he put up with me and my shenanigans more than he should’ve. When I was little, I would lay down a blanket in the middle of my room where Shane would sit in his loaf position, pretending to fly on a magic carpet to a made-up land; or the blanket was our aircraft, and he was my copilot flying to the magical land of Florida (magical to a 7-year-old, at least).
I was 9 years old when I attached a Canon point-and-shoot camera to Shane by putting the wrist strap around his neck, and poor Shane went into a frenzy. Despite the torture I put him through, not getting an ounce of footage from his perspective like I planned, Shane forgave me — well, after we got him out from under the bed and removed the camera strap from his neck.
Surprising as it may be, I also did a lot for him. He loved when I threw his favorite crinkle balls down the hall. I would watch as he jumped in the air to catch the ball, ricocheting off the walls, then got a serious case of the zoomies from all the excitement.
These moments with him are only a fraction of how inseparable we were. He was like the little brother I never had. Whenever I came home with soft-shell tacos from Taco Bell, he always waited for his portion of beef to munch on beside me. I always had this big sister motive to protect him and tease him, laugh at him when he did something stupid and cry when he scratched me, which was always an accident.
During his final year, he slept with me most nights. He wasn’t the type of cat who would loaf on the edge; he rested his head on my pillow, nestled in my twin bed. When he wanted to leave my room, he would climb onto my chest and lightly tap my face. He was always so gentle.
Sept. 9, 2019 was a day I’ll never forget. When my mom picked me up from school, I was naive in thinking Shane was coming home from the vet, where he’d stayed for a few days. Instead, we said goodbye to him.
I had dreaded this moment since I determined Shane’s age classified as “old.” Inevitably, I knew I wouldn’t have him forever, but I thought I would at least have him until the end of college.
Everyone who has ever lost their childhood pet knows that it’s like the five stages of grief, but you’re always stuck in denial. I knew I’d grown to accept his death when I went through the transition from not being able to think of Shane without crying, to not being able to think of him without smiling. In Judaism, it’s a custom to honor the dead by saying, “May his/her memory be a blessing.” I preserve his memory by talking about him with loved ones — that will forever feel like a blessing to me.
Less than a month later, we got a second cat, and while that doesn’t replace Shane, we honor his memory daily while loving our new cat, Jack. Having Jack in the house helped me realize that the absence of Shane doesn’t diminish the company I’ve come to love, even if it’ll never be the same as before.
As hard as it was, I’ve learned to be OK with saying goodbye to that chapter of my life. Despite the pain of having him for 13 years and going through the grief of losing my childhood pet, I would rather have loved and lost than never to have known Shane at all.
Contact Mali Abel at mabel@oxy.edu
Dia de los Muertos, or Day of the Dead , is a vibrant and deeply rooted Mexican tradition that celebrates and honors deceased loved ones. Through colorful ofrendas (altars), marigold flowers, and sugar skulls, it’s a joyful way to remember those who have passed, emphasizing the belief that death is a natural part of the human experience.