To the writer, her cat was more than just a pet, he was family. — Photo: Freepik
I Knew he was mine the moment I looked into his eyes.
Five years ago, in the northern Malaysian state of Perlis, I found a tiny, scrawny creature in a hospital drain. I brought him home, fearing the next downpour would sweep him away. He was only meant to stay one night.
One night became a week.
Though I told myself it was temporary, I named him. I even sent black cat name ideas to my best friends – but I’d already made my choice. He was Bagheera. My little black panther.
No bigger than my palm, he nestled in my hands as I sang his name in a lullaby made up on the spot.
At first, I told myself he’d stay until he could fend for himself. Then, I told myself I’d leave him behind once I was transferred back to my home state in southern Malaysia.
But when the time came, I realised I’d been lying all along. I couldn’t leave him – no more than I could carve out my own heart and leave it behind.
Bagheera never left my side. As I moved around the country for work, training to be a psychiatrist, from one hospital to another – he followed. My shadow. My little spitfire in black fur.
He slept on my legs – unless he was sulking in the laundry basket after being told off. He knew I’d always come to apologise.
He arrived at the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, when I was 800 kilometres from home, working relentless shifts. The isolation was crushing. He saved my sanity.
Later, he saved my life – during a time when bullying at work pushed me to the brink. I stayed alive for him.
He was my warmth, my anchor – my reason.
When I was offered a job in London, it wasn’t easy to leave him behind – him and his sibling, Aarav. I couldn’t find a rental that allowed pets. It took time to find a vet I trusted enough to leave my children with.
Eventually, I did – kind, careful, thorough. Bagheera spent the final year of his life living at the vet’s practice while I made plans for our reunion.
That year, he was diagnosed with feline bronchial asthma. The vet assured me it was manageable. Still, as a doctor and a mother, I worried – reading journals, calculating risks. But mortality rates were low. I took comfort in that.
Until Friday, June 27.
At 3.40am British time, a text came through: “Are you awake?” My phone had been on Do Not Disturb. I shouldn’t have woken. But I did. I replied: yes.
An hour later, the phone rang. The vet didn’t say hello.
He said, “Bad news.” By the time my mind restarted, he had already finished – in Tamil: “Bagheera is dead.” I hung up.
By 9am, I was buying plane tickets – obscenely expensive – planning my journey home. I flew 22,000 kilometres in 24 hours, just to say goodbye. To cradle him one last time.
Some asked, “For a cat?” I said, “A family member died.” And that was the truth.
This isn’t just a story about a cat.
It’s about the kind of love that saves us – and the kind of grief we’re asked to hide.
