It’s been a month since my last post, and there’s a reason for that. Takkun, my cat, my shadow, and my daily companion for sixteen years, passed away a month ago.
At the start of his life, it was just the two of us. Two bachelors living together. He’d follow me around the house, sit on the couch beside me when I watched TV, or squeeze onto my lap while I worked at the computer. During the storms that caused the 2011 floods in Brisbane, Takkun sat on my lap on the front patio, watching the rain with me.
He loved his routines and wasn’t a big fan of change. When I met my wife and she eventually moved in, he wasn’t thrilled at first, especially when she introduced her cat, Burrito, to the household. It took him a few months, but he got used to the new normal.
My wife often said Takkun was a dog in a cat’s body, not because he was messy, but because he lived for food and company. Everyone who met him loved him, even Dad, who was never really a cat person. “Why would you want a cat? They don’t come when you call them,” he’d say.
“Well… watch this, Dad.”
Takkun trotted over when I called his name. Dad was amazed.
.Takkun enjoyed sitting in the sun on the front patio and getting all the pats he could get from everyone who came to the house, family, friends, delivery drivers. He didn’t discriminate.
Every night he’d remind everyone that it was dinner time. He’d chase Burrito around the house and into the kitchen, because she was always fed first. Once she’d eaten, he knew it was his turn. He’d clean up her leftovers, then without fail, as I sat down to eat, he’d place his paw on my leg, a quiet request for a share of my meal, and for a while, he’d even jump up onto the stool next to me to really get my attention, even though he’d already had more than his fill.
After dinner, he’d wait on the couch until I sat in my spot, then place his paw on my arm, his signal that it was time for a hug.
At bedtime, he’d sleep at my feet, and as he got older, he’d slip under the covers between my wife and me during winter.
When I was in the pool, he’d sit close by, usually on my towel, watching me from the edge, probably wondering what I was doing in a giant bowl of water.
In the end, Takkun had cancer. It had spread too far by the time we knew. He had a scare a few months earlier where he had injured his hips, but it turns out that’s about the location the cancer must have started.
If I could change one thing, I’d have let him eat whatever he wanted in his last few months. I’d have skipped the diet that was intended to ease his hip pain and let him live like a king. That’s my only regret, trying to keep him healthy when all he really needed was to be happy.
If he were here now, he’d be lying beside me while I wrote this. Burrito, his little sister, has been doing her best to fill the space he left. She sits with me more often now, and I appreciate it.
Some people say, “he was just a cat.” But when you’ve shared sixteen years, dozens of routines, and a lifetime of quiet companionship, it’s far more than that.
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