Ten Lessons on Living and Dying That I Learned From a Cat

We recently said goodbye to our beloved cat, Twinkie. He was just a few weeks shy of his twentieth birthday, twelve of which I had the privilege to know. Twinkie had been showing his age for quite some time, but his decline was so gradual, and his presence so strong all the while, that we thought he might live well into his twenties. In fact, Twinkie abided so well in whatever state of health he was in that it took us until his final week to realize just how close to death he actually was. He approached it like a buddha—poised, composed, and unperturbed.

The Buddha is said to have died both in great pain and with great composure. We know this because of the cause of death (food poisoning), the teachings he imparted in his final hours, and the meditative state he enjoyed while passing away. His dying was the culmination of all he’d learned and taught since first glimpsing the sufferings of the world while on secret chariot rides beyond the shelter of his father’s palace walls. Namely, that our earthly sufferings stem from our attachment to this body, this mind, these thoughts, this life, these circumstances—all of which are destined to change and be lost, no matter how we might wish otherwise.

Twinkie had mastered living and loving without attachment. He’d witnessed four young humans maturing to adulthood and moving away. His devoted and comforting presence was his gift to them during every joy and especially during every sorrow that their growing up human did bring. And whenever they returned, even after many months living away, he’d be there for them once again, with the entirety of his being. The friends and girlfriends and boyfriends of his family members came and went. Even some family members departed, and new ones, like me, arrived. Pet siblings stayed for a time and moved on: his dog brother, Rusty, and his brother-by-another-mother, Charlie. Still, Twinkie abided. There were always people to love, and people to love him!

At 19 years of age, he welcomed a new little feline into his world—a refugee of the life-changing circumstances of one of the kids. Twinkie weathered young Blueberry’s fearful rebuffs and took her nervous standoffishness in stride. In the end, though, she learned from him: the rhythms of the household, how to ask for her food, how to sit with her humans, and how to sit with him as well. And he learned/relearned from her: watching as she climbed and played in the most nimble and acrobatic of ways, watching through the sliding glass door as she delighted in the birds and squirrels and insects just beyond the screened-in porch, watching calmly as she came and went with ease through the cat door that he’d become too stiff to crawl through.

In midlife, Twinkie would sometimes cry out to us in the night, and we would answer with assurances that he wasn’t alone. We thought he might be reliving in his dreams the attack by an owl or a raccoon that he’d sustained one night after accidentally getting locked outside. But these nighttime terrors seem to have dissipated in his final years. Whatever trauma he’d experienced in his youth was left there in his past as the returning shadows cast by that searing memory eventually faded. Twinkie’s lingering physical sensitivity in the vicinity of the puncture wounds he’d received on his hindquarters on that long ago night seemed to have dissipated as well. He was no longer that nightmarish thing that had happened to him. He’d let it all go, both physically and mentally.

Yes, the years had made of him a buddha. Whereas other skills and abilities slipped away from him with time, his ability to sit patiently and watch was one that he’d perfected and maintained up until the end. His bent front leg made it difficult to limp very far on his once-loved outdoor excursions, but watching with engagement was something that his failing body could still do. He was blind in one eye and very limited in what he could hear, yet he could still take in the world with whatever sense of sight and sound and smell he still had. He no longer had the energy to follow us around as we went about our lives, but he could predict fairly well where we’d be for our breakfast and where we’d sit in the evening. And the rest of the time there were familiar places from which to watch our comings and goings. There were also patches of sunshine in which to bathe on the brightest of days, and a soft bed on an easy chair with a window view through which the daylight and shadow of even an overcast day could wash over him.

In his final days, Twinkie was too weak to rise up from his bed to eat and drink. We’d bring him his favorite wet food, but he would only give it a few licks. Likewise, he’d only take a few sips of water from his bowl. My wife and I wondered whether he was just trying to make us happy by doing so. Could it be that one of his final acts of love for us was to make us feel as though our assistance was truly needed?

Twinkie took his final breaths with his cheek resting on the back of my hand and Darla caressing his tired body. It seemed unfathomable that he was gone. He’d been with us through so much. He’d also left us with so much. Allow me to now share with you some of Twinkie’s teachings on how to live, how to grow old, and how to die. I articulate them to the best of my ability to understand:

1. Love people with all your heart when they are with you. Welcome them back when they return. There’s no need to ponder the why and wherefor of the time in between. There will always be people to love and people to love you.
2. Love life deeply, and don’t be afraid to say goodbye. Birth, aging, and death comprise the arc of life. There is great wisdom in the acceptance of what is.
3. Age will diminish your abilities and faculties. Enjoy what is with whatever abilities and faculties you have.
4. Age will shrink your world. Take pleasure and comfort in that which is close at hand.
5. Appreciate the joy of the young. Appreciate the joy of everyone. All the world’s joy can be yours if only you allow it to be so.
6. Leave past trials and tribulations in the past. They need no longer be you. They need no longer concern or constrain you. You’ve learned from them whatever lessons there were to learn.
7. Pour yourself into your activity, no matter how ordinary it may be. When eating, just eat. When watching the birds, simply watch the birds. Be present with and for all things.
8. Let your loved ones be of assistance. Show your love for them by accepting their love for you. Receiving with grace is a gift all its own.
9. Sit stoically when there is nothing left for you to do. The act of fully watching is a miracle. Be fully present with and for it for however long consciousness remains.
10. Do not fight the inevitable. When you’ve given your full measure, accept your rest. Let gratitude reside in your heart

A metta offering:

May all beings be safe and protected.

May they be free from both inner and outer harm.

May they live with ease and wellbeing.

May they come to know the blessing of true freedom in this very life.

Copyright 2023 by Mark Robert Frank