If you’ve ever loved a pet and had to say goodbye, you’ll understand my heartbreak.

This is for you. And for Oey — my first cat, my first baby — who passed away this February at 17 years, 7 months, and 27 days old.

We brought him home when he was nearly two. My husband wanted to name him Joey, after Joey Tempest (my husband’s favourite singer from the Swedish rock band, Europe ), because Oey’s biological mum was an American Curl cat from Sweden). But Oey didn’t care for that name.

One day, however, a friend came over and dropped the “J” and called him “Oey” — and Oey turned towards him. That was when we knew Oey liked the name Oey.

The Soundtrack of My Life

In his long life, he was the sweet voice who said, “Aha! Aha!” And other non-meow sounds.  It’s only now he’s gone that I realise the silence he left behind.

No more diesel truck-purrs as he massaged me to sleep.

No more shrill, theatrical announcements that he’d just pooped.

No more splashes from the water bowls as he washed his mouth — again and again. (You see, Oey had mouth cancer. And perhaps, in his cat logic, he felt that by washing his mouth, he could wash away his pain.)

In his final months, our house took on the odour of his cancer-tainted drool. We thought we’d be relieved when the smell disappeared. But now, I’d welcome that smell back in a heartbeat — because it would mean Oey was still here.

A Brother, a Therapy Cat

Over time, five more kitties came into our lives and two of those later passed away. But Oey stayed strong, taking on the roles of Abang (big brother in Malay), therapy cat, and groomer.

His younger siblings often plonked themselves in front of him, expecting to be groomed — and groom them, he did. But their royal highnesses never returned the favour!.

He took care of me, too. Every night, he massaged my legs — many minutes at a time. And when I was sick, he massaged me three times a night.

I always wondered how he knew I was sick, but I wished he could count to beyond three!

Quiet and undemanding, he often got Way less notice than his younger, more attention-seeking siblings. And that’s where my guilt lies. I hope he never thought I loved him less.

He chose to lie under my chair at the dining table whenever I sat there. I played with his paws using my toes — it was our little thing. These days, the space beneath feels so empty. And when I need to sit down or stand up, I still push or pull my chair slowly, out of habit — still bracing myself not to bump into him. Muscle memory.

Love, Food, Chicken Chops

The One Thing He Asked For? To be hand-fed. If I was asleep and didn’t wake up fast enough, he scratched the mattress.

And if that failed, he munched on my hair — a not-so-subtle way of saying, “I’m starving.”

Oey’s boiled chicken strips and chicken liver still lie untouched in the freezer. I can’t bring myself to throw them away. But neither am I ready to give them to his siblings. They’re Oey’s!!

His favourite thing ever was sharing my chicken chop — bought from a halal Western food stall at the nearby mall.

He ate three-quarters of the chicken plank, leaving me with only the crispy edges, the chicken skin, and salad.

We shared that dish about once a fortnight and every other day towards the end, right up to the second-last day before he died.

Even with mouth cancer — even though it must have hurt like mad — he still loved his food. It was only in his final 48 hours that he couldn’t eat any more.

My One Regret

One of my last memories of Oey is one I wish I could rewrite.

Every night, my husband and our girl cat slept in the living room to keep Oey company. We had started to lock him out of the bedroom because he had peed on our mattress many times in that year, something he had never done before. But two nights before he passed on, he peed on my husband’s quilt as they slept in the living room. So my husband moved back to the bedroom, locking Oey out.

Wanting to be with us, Oey cried and cried at the Locked cat flap.  We didn’t open the door, too exhausted to face another big clean-up that night.

He stayed outside the cat flap and cried ’Naah…Naah…Naah’ every few minutes, all night long. Each time he cried, I woke up. And each time I woke, my heart broke.

We never imagined we had only  that night and the next left with Oey. Had we known, we would have let him in. Clarity— always in hindsight.

Sometimes, I think I hear him — when a bird or something in the surroundings makes a sound like his sweet voice. And I ache for him.

A Character All His Own

Since I’m a children’s book author, Oey will live on in my Cool Kitty Series — picture books inspired by the cats in our home.

His character is called Brother. He was meant to appear in just the first book, but I ended up including him in all four books. And I won’t stop. He will live on in every Cool Kitty story I write.

But since he passed, I haven’t been able to write the next one. Every time I try, the words blur through my tears.

The stories always had a little of him in them, so writing without him feels… hollow.

But soon, I’d have to buckle down and Write the next book in the Cool Kitty Series. For Oey. Because even though he’s gone, he’ll always be part of my stories.

If you’ve ever loved and lost a pet, I know you feel me. I’m holding Oey in my heart the way I imagine you hold yours.

Tell me your story of the loss of a pet. It will ease your grief to share them and for me to read them.