Is It Okay for a Grown Man to Grieve Because His Cat Died?

Cats go to heaven, right? Where else could they go?

My beloved cat, Jackson, died, and I can hardly breathe.

Death sucks. You can’t plan it, and you can’t fix it. It’s abrupt, permanent, and excruciating. I’m mired in the quicksand of grief and struggling to climb out.

I’ve lost family members and close friends, and the jagged holes their passing cut in my heart will never heal. But a cat? A pet?

“It’s just a cat. Get a new one,” they say. “They” obviously never had a cat. Certainly not mine. Jackson was The Perfect Cat.

Loving, wise, and generous, he left countless lessons scattered in his wake. As the shroud of grief slowly lifts, I see how his life and behavior are reflected in my own.

Facing mortality

We all lose pets and it burns like hell — for a long time. But like any loss, sooner or later, you pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and get on with life.

I don’t know if I can do that this time. You see, the problem is Jackson’s death heralds the approach of my mortality, a demon I don’t care to confront just yet.

Sixteen and a half years ago, my wife called me at the office. She strongly suggested I swing by the pet store as soon as possible because she and our two daughters were already on their way to see the kittens.

“No, no, no,” I screamed. “I don’t want a cat. No more pets. We have a dog.” Kittens are as addictive as crack, and I knew as soon as they saw one, they’d be hooked.

I got there to find the trio standing in front of an empty cage, its door hanging open. Two black and white kittens snuggled in my girls’ embrace, their faces as bright as the sun.

Too late.

“Which one do you want to get, Daddy?” my daughters asked. Not “Can we get one?” but “Which one?”

The oldest trick in the book.

One of them wiggled free from my daughter’s grip, climbed up my arm, sat on my shoulder, and purred a pleading mew in my ear.

For sixteen years that wonderful kitten purred in my ear, my lap, my bed, my house, and for everyone who came to visit.

Now, with his passing, I ask myself how much longer will I continue to purr? The average life expectancy for a man my age is only seventeen years, almost exactly the lifespan of a perfect cat named Jackson.

The little dog who purred

We adopted Jackson at the tender age of 6 weeks, much younger than usual. When we brought him home, he discovered a big hairy creature who ruled our house — a female golden retriever named Feather.

Feather adopted Jackson immediately and taught him everything a proper dog should know, like rushing to the door to greet people, chasing crumbs beneath the table, and roaming underfoot in the kitchen while we cooked. Jackson became a dog, a little dog who purred.

The two were inseparable pals, and our household echoed with the chaos of teen girls, a floppy dog, and a privileged cat-pup who rode on our shoulders like a pharaoh.

One day, my uncle died, and Jackson comforted me with unconditional purrs. Subsequent years brought more tragedies, friends died, family members passed, and Jackson comforted us all.

Sadly, Feather grew so old and frail she could no longer stand. She and Jackson lay together for days while we searched for a cure for our good girl. I learned the hard lesson that old age is incurable and realized one day death will come to visit me too.

Did you know cats grieve? Jackson wandered the lonely halls of our home, looking everywhere for Feather. The poor guy moped and mewled for months. We consoled him for his loss, and he consoled us right back.

We didn’t get another dog. You can’t replace someone’s mother.

Jackson is irreplaceable too.

A brush with fame

Jackson felt the loss of his adopted mother for a long time. To liven things up, I posted pictures of him on Facebook every Friday, posed with glasses and bottles of wine, and labeled the pictures “TGIF,” Thank God It’s Friday.

Week after week, his antics attracted new followers until we had hundreds of people eagerly anticipating each Friday’s pictures. People who had never met Jackson fell deeply in love with him and angrily messaged me when I posted late.

He pretended not to enjoy the hordes of fawning fans, but I noticed a spring in his step every Friday. Sadly, fame — and life — are fleeting.

The final TGIF post went out the day after Jackson died. Here are a few of the tributes:

“Did he even know he was a cat?”

“He was the best boyfriend I’ll ever have.”

“He will be dearly missed, and he did have superb wine choices.”

“So sorry for your loss. One Cool Cat.”

“That’s my kind of cat, Brian. You should tell his story.”

“He had the best life the world could offer.”

“Jackson was the sweetest cat I have ever known. He was a beauty, kind, and sweet. I’m grateful to have shared a small moment in his life.”

“My precious little boy — in my heart forever and always.”

Legends, lessons, and legacies

Jackson is the embodiment of what we should all strive to be: Unconditionally giving, dedicated to happiness, and compassionately heartbroken in the face of a debilitating loss.

I am the product of those who have touched me throughout my life. Thousands of tiny fingerprints from friends, families, acquaintances, (yes, and enemies) have made me who I am today. Jackson was one of those people, perhaps one of the most important.

Fame and fortune are masks we wear in life, and in the end, they fall away and expose our souls. What matters is the kindness we give and the little fingerprints we’ve left on others.

I grieve because I won’t hear Jackson purr in my ear again. I won’t carry him around my house on my shoulders with pride. And he won’t rush to the door like an eager puppy when the bell rings.

But I’m a better man because of him: A cuddly little cat whose sole mission in life was to love.

Heaven

If there is a heaven, I know we’ll find it filled with cats.

Goodbye Jackson. I love you. Thank you for being such a perfect cat.

Click here to subscribe to the free weekly newsletter of Crow’s Feet: Life As We Age.