In Loving Memory

On January 11, 2023, around 6:30 PM, my cat, Poopy, passed away. Though he had suffered two or three consecutive strokes, he was a fighter until the end. May he rest in peace.

Though his absence has left a cat-shaped hole in my heart these past few months, I feel it is only appropriate to remember the life he lived:

We first adopted Poopy around April 2016. Prior to this experience, we'd never had pets before, and I'd never imagined we would. I was still in high school at the time, and my mom came up with the idea to adopt a pet to provide some stability in our tumultuous lives. My sibling was enthusiastic to the idea -- they'd always been a bigger fan of animals than I. At the time, I was only interested in seeming tough and cool (read: emotionally repressed). The word "cute" was simply not in my dictionary. So when I was asked, all I said was something along the lines of:

"Uh, okay, I guess." (Very cool, I know)

Before we went to the adoption center, we browsed through a number of other cats. I recall being personally interested in a number of black and orange kittens (I remember their names: Austin, Charcoal, and Leo). When we did go, we met a couple more, and some of those were nice too. Then, we met Poopy. That day, I couldn't have possibly known the memory would last even until now.

He was the last cat we visited for the day. There was a big room housing three cats who'd formerly lived together, given to the shelter from a nurse or vet who'd raised Poopy and the others from being street cats but who could no longer take care of them. We saw the other two cats first -- they were closer to the door, lower to the ground, shy. Meanwhile, Poopy was in the very back, on the highest branch of a cat tree. It was very clear that he was king of the coop. For one, he was big, easily the biggest cat in the center, more than even double the size of some other cats. He was incredibly friendly, too -- out of all the cats we visited, he was the only one who would turn his head and body this way and that in order to get the pets he wanted, so we figured he was pretty smart too.

On the car ride home, my sibling was convinced. Mostly because he was so big. I was more ambivalent -- he seemed like any old mackerel tabby, page one on Google Images if you just searched the word "cat". But this seemed like a good thing for my sibling, so back we went the next day. My dad urged them to consider picking a younger cat, but their mind was set. The vet warned us he had urinary issues we'd have to handle for the rest of his life, and they said they'd do that too. So the papers were signed, and after a trip to the pet store, back home we went, Poopy meowing loudly in his cardboard cage all the way there.

So, here's something to know about what to do in the first days of adopting a cat. Your cat needs time to adjust and acclimate to their new surroundings. They need a single room to get used to first, exploring the new sights and smells, where they can establish a new structure and be given enough space to relax and find comfort. These are all common tips that are well and good unless your cat was Poopy.

Immediately, Poopy wanted to bust out of this room. He would just sit at the door and meow and leverage his weight against the door until it opened. We learned that day he knew how to open doors too. There was no lock on the handle, so we must've tried like twenty different methods to try and keep it closed and he figured out a way past it every single time. Eventually, we gave up and let him wander the whole house in its entirety. Despite his former residence being a one-story flat, he also learned how to climb stairs on the first day. He was adventurous and curious and settled in as if he had been living there his entire life.

A fun tidbit: Poopy's official name is not Poopy. On all the documents, he is called Homer, because that is what the previous owner named him.

I can't remember exactly when the conversation happened, if it was on the car ride home or that day in particular, or just in the days following, but we were discussing if we should give him another name. None of us watched the Simpsons or were much for Greek history. We all pitched a few names, and none of them really sounded right. Then, my sibling proposed Poopy.

We were like, but why?

They were like, well, he has urinary problems, so he can't pee good. So we can call him Poopy.

It was the stupidest logic possible, and why would you even name a cat after that, and how could I ever respect myself for having a cat named Poopy, and so naturally over time it stuck, despite our initial hesitation, because no one came up with anything better. Throughout his life, he was able to respond to both Homer and Poopy, along with a number of other endearing nicknames we gave him.

I'm thinking of a famous monologue from Blade Runner now.

Right before his passing, Roy Batty an artificial replicant, reflects on the life he's lived. He recalls vivid memories of things only he's seen. Then he says, "All these moments will be lost in time, like tears in the rain. Time to die."

I think about this a lot when I think about Poopy.

What was it like for him being a kitten on the streets? What did he even look like? What was his previous owner like? How did he feel getting adopted by us? Were we good owners? What did he remember about us? These are questions I will never know the answers to.

Before he passed, I made him a promise I would think about him every day for the rest of my life. I promised that when I slept, I would visit him in my dreams. Though I've done both, the memories still begin to fade, even as I grasp hold of them and refuse to let go. It becomes harder to see his face outside pictures and remember how smooth his fur felt against my fingertips and how he purred when he was happy. One day, this too shall pass, like tears in the rain.

I want to remember how, in those first days, he chased the toy mice so freely and learned how to fetch them or bring them to us if he wanted to play. How we quickly learned that his favorite color was yellow. How I would stand there for minutes, watching in fascination seeing him eat or drink. How he would smell everything new in the house and get into places he shouldn't be. How he was too big for any cat harness, but never dared run away outside and ran to every door he could find to try and get inside. How he would meow at his door in the mornings when he heard people around, or would run upstairs at night and cuddle when he heard people talking, then wake up at 5 AM and open the door himself or make enough noise for someone to do it for him, go downstairs to get food, then sometimes come back up again.

The stories I want to keep are endless. At the end of this memorial, I hope to write them all down over time, day after day, month after month, until I have nothing left to give.

Anyone who holds a dislike of cats has not met Poopy. Though he was never much of a lap cat (he was, of course, too big to fit), and shied away from most of the unexpected cuddles, he remains one of the sweetest, gentlest, most loving cats I've known to this day. He loved getting pet, and would rub his head and body against you to ask for them and while getting pet. He would be very polite, putting a gentle paw or two on your leg and looking up expectantly. He would purr in the cutest and softest way and roll around in pleasure. He loved soft blankets, which he would bite while kneading and purring. He adored human company, and would often seek out rooms where people were, even when he didn't need anything. He missed people who were gone for long periods of time -- while my sibling and I were away for college or vacation, he would often sleep on our beds, and when we came back, he'd be waiting for us. He would slow blink at us and roll onto his belly, cat signs for trust. He was a good cuddler and could sense when we were stressed. Sometimes, he would gently lick us to get our attention, or just to clean us. He was obsessed with trying to groom my sibling's hair. He'd greet us every day with trills, meows, and purrs just from excitement. Every night at his bedtime, he'd understand when it was time to put him in his room, even if my parents spoke to him in Chinese, and sometimes if he didn't want to go he would run upstairs and hide with us instead. At the vet's office, they would always tell us he was one of the calmest, most compliant cats they'd treat.

He was a bundle of oxymora: smart, yet dumb, serious, yet silly, no longer obese, yet big. He was a senior kitty and our baby all the same. It was entertaining watching him do anything at all, whether that be playing with a toy or cleaning himself or rolling around or just sitting there and looking around. He had a memorable personality that won anyone who met him over. His effulgence brought me many smiles and hours of peace. He was so cat in so many ways.

Nothing will ever convince me that Poopy wasn't the cutest cat to have ever lived. I especially loved his round, inquisitive, innocent eyes. Many cats don't like looking into eyes for any reason other than aggression but Poopy was not just comfortable, but affectionate with it. I loved his little white chin and black lips that would show as he peeked upward. I loved how big and solid and squishy he felt. His fur remains the softest and smoothest of any animal I've ever touched, and remained pristine even into his old age. I loved his squishy belly and paws and twitchy ears and solid back and soft cheeks and firm nose bridge I would often pet along. Every part of him was perfect. Even if I closed my eyes, I knew how to navigate every inch of his body, and even as I write, I can picture my hand tracing down his back, lifting up, stroking it again.

His favorite petting spots changed over time, ranging from his cheeks to his chin to the top of his head to his neck to his back to his butt. Beside getting pet, he loved to eat. Throughout his life, he adopted several different ways of letting us know when he was hungry. Early on, he would leap onto the seat beside us and purr. He would sit at our feet and headbutt us and put his paws on us and do a big stretch. Later on, he cut out the middleman and would just sit in the kitchen and wait and stare until we finished our meals. Always, he would meow as soon as he knew we were about to feed him. He was never picky, and always would circle us eagerly while we prepared his food and run all the way with us to his feeding area, wolf it down, and spend the next half hour or hour cleaning himself. He loved to sleep, and his little snores and deep sleep chirps were both funny and calming. He loved playing with string, anything we could slither for him to chase after, or anything he could chew or get a good bite on, often preferring the stick to the toy attached to it. He loved sitting in the front door smelling the outside breeze. He loved sitting in weird places or near our things -- his favorite spots changed over time, ranging from under tables to beside ledges or toys to on the couch to by the dining area window to beside my dad's briefcase. He liked chewing on plants and then derping out and rolling around, and would kill for catnip. He hated car rides and meowed the entire drive. He disliked (but got used to) being picked up for a little too long and twitched when his chest or certain paws, but not others, were touched. The only two things I ever saw him run from were inflatable princess beach balls and loud trashcan noises, and that was when I learned he could also climb fences.

If I had two regrets, I wished I'd spent more time with him, and I wish I'd taken more pictures over the years. Cats aren't as attention-seeking as dogs, but that doesn't mean they don't enjoy the attention. I can't help but wonder if things would be different if I'd spent just a little more time each day petting him or playing with him or taking care of him, instead of being so occupied with my own things. As I scroll through my photos, I can't help but think I didn't take enough, each representing another sliver for me to remember him by.

It's difficult for me to relive those last few days. I was still on vacation in Japan, completely unaware his first stroke happened on Christmas day. A few days before I flew back, I got a call from my parents letting me know his situation, and that he was in the hospital awaiting a critical operation with only a 50% chance of success to survive maybe a few more days at the least. I got to video call him that day while standing in a packed Japanese subway, fighting back tears. His eyes were dull, muted, not at all how they were when I left for Japan. Thankfully, he survived the operation, but only just. On the flight back home, I could think of nothing but him. I just had to hope he would wait long enough for me.

When I arrived back home, I had to face a grim reality. He could barely walk or move or recognize anything. He would wriggle and kick his legs occasionally, only trying to escape to press his head against the wall to ease what must've been unbearable pain. He refused food and water. I sat there desperately trying to figure out how this was the same cat I'd left not even a month ago. I was angry, sad, and afraid. Would anything have changed had they identified the strokes earlier? Some part of me refused to let go, clawing onto any hope that at some point, with persistence, by some miracle, he would begin to get better.

After our trip, my sibling and I were exhausted. We spent a few hours petting and comforting him, and fell into restless sleep for a few hours. Poopy fell asleep beside us too. Then was the slow drive to the vet's office, and while listening to the car radio, I understood the meaning of sad love songs for the first time. We spent a few hours there just preparing for it all and giving him our last goodbyes. Finally, we decided it was time. He passed away in our arms. I have burned the last little kick he gave into my memory, the wails, the long look at the office room when it was time to leave. These moments will haunt me for the rest of my life, and I cannot, will not forget them.

To be honest, it just feels unfair.

It wasn't supposed to happen like this. I was on the most fulfilling, eye-opening trip of my life. He was almost perfectly healthy before we left. We had almost no notice before it happened. Strokes are rare among cats, and many times, they are able to recover -- in fact, I'm told he was recovering after the first one. Hell, it was even the holiday period. It almost feels like this happened precisely at the worst possible time.

I do not know if there exists a god, or multiple, or just a cold, uncaring universe, but whatever it may be, I curse it for taking him from us this way. I curse it for not letting me take away his pain and hurt in his final moments, even if it would mean feeling it myself. I curse it for making it so all life will end.

I can only hope that he is at peace, and if there is such a thing as heaven, I would give anything, anything for him to be there.

Poopy changed me for the better. He opened my mind and softened my heart. He was a rock in my life who kept me anchored amidst a sea of chaotic and changing times. He taught me empathy and compassion. I have never loved any creature so much before, nor been made so happy by one, and he influenced my life greatly. Even today, my background wallpapers and photo galleries are filled with nothing but cat pictures because of him.

While in Japan, I learned how common it was for people to create shrines to honor their deceased relatives and pets. Today, though his photograph and paw print hang above my bedroom wall, I hope that this webpage serves as an eternal virtual shrine to perpetuate his memory as well.

I used to sit there and just look at Poopy, and go, I can't believe it. I can't believe that this is a real life cat and he is here right in front of me. Now I can't believe that he's gone.

I'll miss you dearly, friend. Rest in peace.