How do cats die? This week, I learned how they leave us.
It all begins one evening when you come home late and open the door.
Or rather, before you even open it.
That evening, for perhaps the first time, you don’t hear that familiar meow. As you turn the key, the silence inside leaves a deep, melancholy void within you.
It feels like a scratch—a pang of doubt, or maybe a fear whose meaning you’ll only understand much later.
And you’re not mistaken. When you open the door, those jet-black fur, those lively eyes peeking out from it, are nowhere to be seen.
Holding the keys in your hand, you call out, "Cat."
For 15 years, every time you called “Cat,” they would come running, chirping little meows, their tail wagging in an endless rhythm of joy. But this time, no answer.
You call again. And again. You tell yourself it’s just one of their occasional whims.
But no... something feels off. The silence itself begins to speak, delivering the bad news you don’t want to hear.
Your cat is now ill. And elderly too.
At that moment, you start calculating. Some say every year of a cat’s life equals 6-7 human years.
Some veterinarians offer more complex calculations. According to them, your cat is somewhere between 80 and 93 in human years.
Then, the visits to the vet begin.
Their kidneys are failing. Their stomach is ravaged.
Nights become filled with strange and painful meows, followed by bouts of vomiting.
But the most telling sign of a cat’s illness is when they stop eating.
You place their favorite foods in front of them. You try to help them eat by gently stroking their head.
In vain...
And so, the quiet days begin. Days of silent waiting with a cat that no longer meows.
In those heartbreaking moments when hope has faded, arguments arise at home.
“Should we consider putting them to sleep?”
But who will make that decision? Is it harder to endure the suffering of your elderly, ailing cat or to make the choice to end their life with a single injection?
It’s one of those rare times when deciding who is right or wrong becomes almost impossible.
Most of the time, you can’t go through with it. And the nights grow harder.
Then, one day, you notice your cat trying to hide under cabinets, retreat to dark corners, or even escape outside.
Though you resist the thought, your cat is preparing for death. The final struggle between you begins.
They want to retreat to those hidden corners, while you try to keep them close, bringing them to your bed.
You win.
And on the evening of a day when you’ve given them fluids, the light in their weary eyes dims further.
That night, you let them sleep beside you. You take a final photo together.
When you call out “Cat,” they barely lift their head to look at you. On their now shrunken face, you still catch that familiar expression.
Before dawn, you wake up to find them trying to get out of bed—or rather, falling.
Their mind is made up. There’s nothing more to be done.
You gently pick them up, carry them downstairs, and place them carefully in their usual spot.
And then, something unexpected happens. They crawl to their litter box and relieve themselves.
Even in their final moment, they uphold the grace of being a cat.
Afterward, they fall into a deep sleep. You call out “Cat.” They don’t lift their head. They only give a faint wag of their tail, an instinctive response.
You don’t hear a “meow.” They’ve saved all their strength for their final farewell meow.
You hold them in your arms. With light strokes, you caress their head, just as you’ve done for 15 years, trying to stop time.
Their breaths grow shallower. All that’s left in your arms now is fur.
Finally, you hear three faint meows, as if from a faraway place.
That is the farewell meow.
Your cat has crossed to the other side.
Just like your grandmother once did, they take small steps away, leaving behind only a tuft of fur, now turned white.
Your 15-year-old cat, who was born in Ankara, lived with you in Istanbul, and said goodbye in a small, tree-covered house in Gökova, leaves you this way.
In that moment, you realize they’ve never once been a burden to you. They’ve given you nothing but companionship throughout their life.
This is how cats die.
With grace, dignity, and pride.
They leave you with a solemn, silent farewell meow... and slip away.
Ertuğrul ÖZKÖK / Hürriyet / 1998
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