To be honest, my hands were a little shaky as I wrote this. Because this isn’t just knowledge—it’s a scar etched deep in my heart from personal experience. My elderly cat had been with me for sixteen years, and on the day it passed, only then did I slowly piece together the fragments. I realized that it had already used up every ounce of its strength to say goodbye to me.
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It Suddenly Seemed to “Not Recognize Me”
I remember it very clearly. In those final days, it no longer acted like before—when I came home, it wouldn’t rush to the door with a “meow” to greet me. It started avoiding me. When I called its name, it would just sit on top of a cabinet, looking at me from afar with eyes I couldn’t read. I was heartbroken, thinking, this little ungrateful creature, after all these years, is growing grumpier as it gets older? Looking back now, I just want to smack myself. It wasn’t that it didn’t recognize me—it was afraid I’d see it in a weak state. Cats are like that: their pride runs deep, and they refuse to show their most vulnerable side to the ones they love most. It was trying to tell me through distance: “I may be leaving soon. Stay away so you won’t be too sad.”
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The “Final Patrol” Around the House
One night, I got up to use the bathroom and saw a small, trembling figure slowly walking through the living room. It was him. He moved from the sofa to the windowsill, then to his scratching post, gently rubbing his head. The moonlight fell on him, and that silhouette—I will never forget it. He looked like an old soldier, saying his final goodbye to his territory. Every item in the house carried his scent, engraved with our memories. With his tiny paws, he was touching one last time the home he had loved his entire life. The scene was silent, yet more deafening than any sound could ever be.
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Hiding Himself Away
This was the most heartbreaking part. He started desperately searching for places to hide. I searched the entire house and finally found him in a narrow gap behind the washing machine. He was curled up there, motionless. When I reached out to hold him, he let out a faint, warning “hiss.” At that moment, I understood: he wasn’t sulking; he was finding his own “tomb.” He wanted to leave this world quietly, with dignity, undisturbed by anyone. He didn’t want me to witness his last breath. I didn’t insist— I just placed his soft mat at the entrance to the gap and whispered, “I won’t touch you. I’ll stay here with you.”
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Suddenly “Eating with Appetite”
Just when I thought he had stopped eating and drinking and was ready for the inevitable, one day he staggered out from the corner and walked to his food bowl, taking a few bites of kibble. I was overjoyed, thinking a miracle had happened—he was getting better! I even opened a can of wet food for him, and he licked a few bites. Looking back now, it wasn’t a recovery; it was a “final flare.” He was using the last bit of his energy to taste home one more time, to make me happy one last time. Through this, he was telling me: “See, I can still eat. Don’t worry about me.” It was his final comfort to me.
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Sleeping Extra “Deep”
In his last days, he spent almost all his time sleeping. Not the gentle purring kind of sleep, but a deep, almost imperceptible slumber. I held him in my arms; he was so soft, like a cotton ball without bones. I called his name repeatedly, and he barely moved, maybe just an ear twitch. Pressing my face to his small chest, I could feel the faint, nearly stopping heartbeat. I knew he was exhausted—his body couldn’t hold on much longer. His little engine was about to shut down.
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His Final Look at Me
At the moment he left, I was holding him. Suddenly, as if using all his remaining strength, he slightly opened his eyes and looked at me. There was no pain in that gaze—only peace, even a hint of… fondness? Then, in my arms, his body went limp, completely still. I knew he was gone.
In the courtyard stands a loquat tree, planted by my wife in the year she passed, now growing tall and spreading like a canopy.” — Su Shi.This line speaks of things remaining while people change. My cat isn’t human, yet what it left me feels just the same. In its own way, it gave me the most dignified farewell, and it took me so long to truly understand. I hope you won’t be like me, missing the chance to say a final goodbye. Cherish it while you still can—hold it close, and give it love when it still needs you.
