Death of a Cat and Artificial Intelligence
My cat died this week and I am extremely sad — sad to the point of choking up whenever I think about my everpresent companion for the last 16 years.
Daniel was always at my side as I slept, ate, worked, watched TV, streamed movies or cooked in the kitchen. Covid intensified our relationship when I started working exclusively from home. Daniel sat on my lap or laid across the desk as I worked, occasionally leaping toward the screen when he mistook the cursor for an interesting bug.
We acquired Daniel 16 years ago from a friend who raised cats. He grew into a highly social animal with an affinity for both familiar and unfamiliar humans, frequently hopping onto the laps of both cat-loving and -unloving guests. He was a silent addition to dinner table discussions, movie nights, breakfasts and most anything that involved people in the house.
He developed early signs of renal failure about a year ago, evinced by inexorable weight loss. His weight dropped from a robust 12lb to just under 6lb before death. Had he been human, he would have looked like someone whose death was both imminent and expected.
But aside from a sunken abdomen and protruding hip bones, he looked no different from the Daniel of a decade past. And that was the problem: he was clearly on a metabolic vector toward death but his face looked unchanged. His death journey was cloaked. Fur hides a lot.
In his last week, Daniel was too feeble to jump onto chairs or laps. He could barely stand by his food bowl and suffered the embarrassment of being unable to get into the litter box. We set up an two air mattresses on an incontinence-worthy tiled floor so he could sleep wedged against one of us in his final days.
We prepared minced chicken, fish and broth for him in the last days. Last meals should never be from cans. I had an overwhelming sense of futility along with heartbreak watching him eat, struggling against certainty.
His last car trip, an activity he loved, was to the vet for euthanasia when he was finally unable to eat or drink. Other than the jab of the sedative, the rest of the procedure was painless and humane. I wish I had familiarized myself with what to expect; I wasn’t prepared for the protruding tongue and widely open staring eyes as he went lifeless.
The time since his death has just slightly assuaged our pain. We bagged up all his possessions and equipment. With the litter boxes, cartons of litter, toys, sleeping beds, we filled several large bags. We donated his cat food, which we had overbought in a fit of unrealistic optimism.
The immediacy of his absence was shocking. Everywhere we looked, we saw where he wasn’t. He wasn’t on his chair at breakfast or on the couch when we watched Netflix. By habit we would gingerly open the door coming home because he always waiting just on the other side — but now he wasn’t.
Nights were strangely silent. For years, our sleep had been frequently punctuated by all sorts of vocalizations as he sat in the window seeing things we couldn’t and howling at unknown creatures. We called that “Danny’s World”, certain he was tuned into activity beyond our perception. Cat have their own dimension we aren’t part of.
The sadness has been overwhelming at times. He had a favorite window upstairs where he would take in afternoon sun. Seeing the deep impression he left on his favorite cushion brought flooding tears. We cried when found his favorite toy, a tattered stuffed squirrel, under some furniture. We never saw him carrying it but it moved around the house like one of those toys that come to life at night in children’s movies.
The grief has been harsh, worse than anything I remember. I’ve lost parents and close friends, some expected and others unexpected. I struggled to understand why the death of a cat would be so difficult.
So I consulted artificial intelligence, asking it why has the death of my cat had such a profound emotional inpact. I got an answer akin to a group of subject matter experts giving me a consensus. I excerpted these key paragraphs from a satisfyingly long reply:
It’s completely understandable that the death of your pet cat is causing you immense pain, even if it feels more intense than the grief you experienced following the loss of a parent. Grief is a complex and highly personal experience, and there’s no right or wrong way to feel. While you might expect to grieve deeply for a parent, the intensity of your emotions surrounding your pet’s passing is perfectly valid. Here are some reasons verbatim why this might be:
Unique bond with pets: Pets often provide unconditional love, companionship, and acceptance, forming a unique and irreplaceable bond with their owners. They may be a constant presence in your daily life, offering comfort and routine, which can make their absence feel especially profound.
Uncomplicated relationship: Unlike human relationships, which can be complex and fraught with misunderstandings, the relationship with a pet is often simpler and more pure. This can make grief feel more straightforward and focused, allowing the full weight of your love and loss to be present.
Role of your pet: Your cat might have played a specific role in your life, like helping manage anxiety, providing emotional support, or simply being a source of joy. Losing this specific role can create an additional layer of grief and disruption to your daily life.
It’s important to remember that everyone grieves differently and at their own pace. Don’t compare your experience to others or judge yourself for feeling more affected by your pet’s death. Here are some ways you can support yourself during this difficult time:
This response floored me. It crystallized emotions into words. I had that unique bond with Daniel. We often just sat together, him staring at me and me sensing his mood from those movements of the ears and eyes that those not fortunate enough to understand cats just miss. The relationship was indeed simple and pure, unbedeviled by the complexities of human interactions.
Source of joy is the reason to have a cat. A purring cat with its warmer-than-human body consoles, relaxes and induces sleep. Yes, that joy may be occasionally marred by a yellow misdemeanor puddle on the floor or a brown felony that cats are wont to commit or an inevitable nip and scratch. Cats will be cats.
We miss him. We will always miss him.
Epilogue:
A month has passed and our grief has slackened, but there are triggers all over the house. Daniel’s cremated remains are in a small wooden box atop the fireplace mantle. We are still finding clumps of hair in odd places. We’ve given up removing reminders. The sadness will ebb. There’s no need to hasten it.
A friend said we should get another cat. We don’t want a generic cat. We want Daniel with his quirky and unique traits. Replacing him disrespects his life.
I’ve thought about asking my AI sage whether a replacement cat is a good idea, but I won’t. I don’t need the synthetic intelligence of a million minds to tell me the way forward.
And I also wonder if cats have souls. No need to consult AI on this, either. I believe it because I know one that did.
