We lost our kitten recently, a sweet boy named Harry, short for Prince Harry, not for his ginger hair, but more for his propensity for getting into trouble. We had him for barely three months. He couldn’t have been more than a month old when we took him in.
My wife and daughters had found him on the Federal Highway with a broken leg, matted fur, and fleas; basically, he was on his way to the Great Cat Retirement Home in the Sky. But the vet saved him, minus a few bits of his anatomy here and there.
He became healthy in no time, and grew like he was on steroids. Our 13-year-old senior cat, however, was so stressed by his presence she lost weight because of it.
By the way, said senior cat has regained the lost weight and is back to her old pudgy, sullen and watchful self and I won’t say anything else because my kids say I shouldn’t body-shame her.
If truth be told, she is plus-sized. But her fangs and claws are sharp and have sent me to the emergency room twice, so let’s keep that just between us, OK?
I would hold Harry and wonder how a creature could be this beautiful. Nothing man-made comes even close. He was not a “branded” or specially-bred specimen from a pet shop. He was literally a street cat, if the Federal Highway can be called a street.
As he grew bigger over the months, he started to explore. He got locked into a few places that cats like to explore, including cars.
One day, he went out through the gap in the fence wall, where the area outside is literally a jungle. We’ve seen all kinds of birds, creatures, a huge monitor lizard, snakes, wild dogs and even, just days earlier, a wild pig.
He must have met something bigger and nastier than him, and was savaged severely. If I have to guess, I’d say it was one of the wild dogs, which are friendly enough with people but not so with other creatures smaller than them.
Had I seen the attack, I would have weaponised everything around me – hoes, shovels, pickaxes, rakes – and there would have been blood on the ground, some of it probably mine. You can’t let family be harmed, you just can’t.
But I didn’t, and the only way to see it now is that this is how nature works. He came at the wrong end of it, and he paid the ultimate price. I feel no anger against the attacker or attackers – they are, after all, animals who just follow their instincts.
We buried him with as much dignity as we could offer. We were sad, but at least there was closure. We lost the 10-year-old tom, Calvin, last year, probably for the same reason; we never knew what happened to him.
I think back to many years ago when my own parents died: my father first, then my mother; both died of old age, although not exactly of a ripe old age, it must be said.
I was sad, of course, especially since I had moved out of our Penang home to live in KL, and I wasn’t there when they passed away. In my mother’s case, I was in Hong Kong on business, and couldn’t even make it back for the funeral.
As sad as I was, I remember feeling guilty for not feeling sadder. After all, my parents have been the most important influence in the making of who I am today, and I remain indebted to them (even with their additional gifts of asthma and bad knees) to this day.
I figured out the reason for this later on. Both were in their old age, knew their time was coming, and had absolutely no fear about dying and going to meet their Maker.
My mother even joked about it. She said it would be best if my father went first, because if she went first, he’d be left helpless and miserable in his remaining days. My father was the hard guy of the family, but my mother was the tough one, and everybody knew that.
Even though it was a struggle, I managed to send them both to Mecca. They returned and, against the typical kampung norms, chose to be as normal as possible in spite of their hajj status. It wasn’t common then, and it isn’t common even now.
They left no loose ends on their passing. They had led a good life, struggled through poverty for most of it, but kept their vows to God. They helped and cared for others regardless of faith, class or race, and accepted whatever help they received with a grateful heart.
My father had a sense of perverse pride, some of which came down to me (hah!). He’d react to those who like to lord it over others with their wealth, position or power by aggressively flaunting the fact that he did not have any, and that those vain monkeys didn’t impress or scare him.
I would later find a term that describes this well – a reverse snob. He was one, and so am I.
My parents were rich beyond measure, not in how much they had, but in how much they didn’t need. They looked to their final days without fear, and with calm acceptance, to finish a life well lived and go on another more important journey. That was true wealth.
It would be perverse of me to equate losing a pet to losing my parents. The two are different kinds of loss, though losing my parents was in many ways easier to bear because they’d played a good innings, and died with no regrets whatsoever. There was closure.
But pets, even if not humans, are people too, and are often much loved members of the family. Losing them can be painful, for they too can touch our lives immensely.
I’m not sure if we’ll have any more pets in the household, as I may be outvoted on this. But there are many cats and dogs and other animals out there deserving of a good family, and they’ll enrich your life in return.
Pick up one, whether from a shelter or even off the streets, and give, and receive, unconditional love.
Much like what good parents will give you, if you are lucky enough to choose good ones.
The views expressed are those of the writer and do not necessarily reflect those of FMT.