I don’t know how to live without my cat
An ode to Shadi
Friday, 28th of June, my cat Shadi died in my arms as the vet administered her the euthanasia. I was holding her on my lap, wrapping her with my arms, and her head, already groggy from the sedative, rested on my chest. When she died, the veterinarian left the room, leaving me alone with her for five minutes. I cradled her head, which had fallen back on my arm as the life had left her body, and I put it back on my chest, as if she were just sleeping with half closed eyes. My legs continued to shake, even though I was sitting, until the veterinarian came back. I left Shadi on the table and kissed her head and I left the room. But I am still there.
Last year, when I was grieving my father, people started avoiding me. Or they avoided talking to me about anything substantial, about any of the things I really wanted to talk about. Not everyone, of course, but enough people that I noticed.
And I really want to talk about Shadi now.
I assume they are afraid of making me sad. But I am sad, I am thinking about them all the time. Bringing them up in conversation, asking me about them, is a kindness. Is doing me a favour. Is helping me not have to pretend. Is liberating. With some exceptions (my mum), this is the best thing you can do to a grieving person: Ask them about the loving one that has just passed.
When C.S. Lewis’ wife died, he wrote: “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.”
A pressure in my chest, higher than where her head rested as she died, closer to the middle, prevents me from taking full breaths. I am constantly short of breath since Thursday. I feel the lack of oxygen in my lungs—and dare I say, my brain—and the only thing that helps is trying to let the air in full force: Open my mouth wide, wider, and yawn. But it is hardly satisfying, and in a few minutes my body does it again.
I won’t talk about more sad things, so don’t be afraid to continue reading; there are many cute pictures ahead. I told Shadi all the time she was the love of my life and so the best way to honour her is to explain what made her so special. Here’s a partial list:
Her purring was so loud you could hear it from another room. She’s been known to purr non-stop for more than one hour
She always looked like she didn’t get what was going on, but she did
She had the face of a cartoon cat, with a freckle right on the tip of her nose
In winter, all the hours I wasn’t working—and sometimes when I was working—she had to be on me, purring. This meant hours a day of having her on my legs/stomach/chest purring. Sometimes on my neck
a collection of Shadis on my lap/chest/neck I took to knitting this winter and knitted my first sweater because I could knit with Shadi on me—sewing was my preferred hobby, but it was not as compatible with Shadi
knitting vs sewing with Shadi Sometimes people asked me, Isn’t it exhausting? She sounds so bossy. I always laughed it off, I love her so much she is perfect
If I thought about it more, I admitted that, had I known beforehand that she would prevent me from writing as much as I wanted, from sewing or doing other things I wanted, I would have assumed that this is how I would feel as well: annoyed, frustrated. But I didn’t know then the warmth of her body on my legs as she purred loudly and licked my hand
There is also, of course, the fact that she could not prevent me from writing. She didn’t even weight three kilos. I let her prevent me from writing
Sometimes when I did write, because I’ve edited my novel, written several short stories and the beginning of another novel in the three years and three months I’ve lived with Shadi—Sometimes when I did write, and took a pause from writing to go to the toilet or get water, when I came back to the living room she would be sitting over the laptop’s keyboard—casually as if she’d been there all along
On April of this year, Shadi found the first box that she liked. I had been trying to get her into boxes since I’d adopted her but I, based on my previous feline experience, was providing her with smaller boxes where she fit snugly. Turns out Shadi wanted a big box to sprawl on
Shadi’s first box where she spent a significant portion of May and June of 2024 She never drank water from her plate, only from glasses. I had—still have, I haven’t moved them—glasses around my flat full of water. To prevent her drinking from mine, I only filled it halfway so her tongue couldn’t reach the water
She loved to lick the salt of crisps, couldn’t eat them but left them soggy and wet, all the salt on them licked out
When I got her, I thought she would fight and kill the cockroaches I used to have, but she cried and ran away when she saw them. I haven’t had cockroaches (not alive ones at least) since I hired some exterminators three years ago, but when occasionally she saw a spider, she reacted the same way
One of her cushions—all my cushions/pillows are her cushions/pillows—has a beautiful samurai pattern—my father bought it for me at my favourite fabric shop in Barcelona, specialised in Japanese fabrics—and she has slept on it many times. One day she paid attention to the pattern and the face of a particular samurai scared her so much she jumped right off the cushion and into the sofa with a puffed tail
Shadi on the samurai cushion that would one day scare her Our routine included feeding her at around 10 pm, so I could wash my face, brush my teeth as she ate, and then we’d go to bed together. I would read in bed for between one or two hours (depending on the book) (depending on the book, I looked at my phone instead) with her on my stomach purring. Before midnight, she would relocate to the end of the bed, and I would turn off the light to sleep
If I didn’t obey this routine, because I was watching a tv show on the sofa, because I had guests and we were having fun in the living room, because I was writing, she used to do what I called Bullying
Shadi’s bullying consisted of her getting into a high place—it could be a table, the arms of the sofa, or when the ironing board was out, which is always out when I’m in the middle of a sewing project, the ironing board—and sitting down, not comfortably but practically, not to sleep but ready to jump at any moment, and stare at me. She could stand in this position for an hour, as I told her: In ten minutes, we’re going to bed in ten minutes, every ten minutes
bullying from the ironing board In the summer, she spent the two hours the sun shines on my balcony, on the balcony. Then she would come inside, hot to the touch, and lie on the floor or on the table
She only kept a distance when I showered. When she heard the water running she left, and as soon as I turned the water off, she would come back. I would open the shower curtains and Shadi would be waiting for me there
The other day, barely a month ago, she was in the balcony looking out—she loved to do this in the summer—and in a balcony opposite ours—I live in a narrow street—two men were talking and pointing at her. She hated it so much she started crying like it hurt, but she wouldn’t move, so I had to pick her up and calm her down with cuddles. She didn’t like men
In the winter, when she wasn’t on me, she was by the radiator. As close as she could get. Sometimes she put her paw in between the radiator bars
yes, her nose is touching it Whenever I went to the kitchen, even if it wasn’t her feeding time, she would follow me just in case I fed her. If I left the kitchen with the lights on, she would wait for me there, knowing this meant I was coming back in a few seconds and I might still feed her. If I turned the lights off as I left, she knew I was not coming back, and left the kitchen with me
When her nail got caught on something, she held her paw high and waited for me to unstuck it
Often when she was on my lap she would wrap her tail around my arm or hand, so I would not move it
there are almost no pictures of this, as I was mostly left with no hands when it happened I used to have a lamp from Natura that had a huge warm-lighted lightbulb that got actually hot. She loved it and spent the hours I was in bed reading wrapped around the light. We joked that she was a fortune-teller, that this was her crystal ball
Shadi as a fortune teller When the lightbulb died—because Shadi accidentally pushed it off the bed—I tried to purchase it again, but in the years that had passed it seems that we had evolved out of heating lightbulbs. I tried anyway, I went to a local lightbulb shop and explained what I needed. The man working there said this kind of lightbulbs were dangerous and they didn’t make them any more, I said: But my cat…
I kept the lamp, I still have it, but Shadi never looked at it again
She liked to lie on top of fresh clean laundry. Even if it was just underwear
She woke me twice every night. One to be fed—I got up, fed her, and went back to bed—one for attention—she wanted me to play with her, pet her, entertain her (sometimes I would do it while humming the chorus of the song Attention by SHINee. I joked it was her favourite song)
POV of being woken up by Shdi at 6 am It feels weird to sleep through the night without interruptions
Once, when I’d only had her for a few weeks, we had a fight. The fight consisted of her meowing louder and louder from the floor, asking for food, and me telling her: I just fed you! It’s not time yet! You have to wait two more hours! Then I fed her and we never fought again. I understood she was always right
She used to poke me with her paw/hand on my face to request face-scratching
In Canet, where we lived one month of last year, she slept on my mother’s plants
the plant on the right it’s called “planta del diner(o)” in Catalan/Spanish, because it’s supposed to bring you money if you treat it well. I must confess it has not recovered from Shadi even a year later. (Wikipedia says in English it’s commonly called Swedish ivy) Whenever I came home, I could hear her from the bottom of the stairs as I climbed to my flat on the second floor: Meow meow meow. When I opened the door, she was always there waiting for me. She never could decide what she wanted more, food or cuddles, and made me follow her to the kitchen where she would sprawl on the floor purring for me to scratch her stomach right by her bowls
She did that even if I was only out for ten minutes
She really liked it when you scratched her nose and chin
She was the most affectionate, loving animal I have ever met
She suffered from anxiety when I took her with me outside the flat, which happened less and less with time—only to go to the vet, or to take her to friends when I ocasionally went on a trip. When she saw me pack a bag, she got anxious and hid under the bed. I assumed she had been abandoned in the past
I used to tell her: I will never abandon you, it’s me and you, together until the end!
When Shadi died, we estimate she was between seven and eight years old. We don’t know what happened to her for the first half of it, but given her health condition, we assume nothing good. I will forever be thankful to Lissy for bringing her into my life; I am happier for having known Shadi, even if now I am incredibly sad.
I don’t know what to do with all the time her absence gives me; writing this text and looking at pictures of her seemed like the only option. I had scheduled another post for a mid-year recap which I have now postponed, but will probably arrive to your inboxes sometime in July.
shadolinssi forever❤️❤️❤️