It’s funny how hard we can love the beings that are hardest to love

A tribute to my cat, Harvey

On Saturday, May 11, 2024, we put our cat Harvey down. He was a real one, as they say. A true king. 

And he was my best friend. 

But—and this is something true with many cats—was also an asshole. Harvey scratched, he swatted, and on more than one occasion, he drew blood. He bullied our other cat, and he loved to torture our dog, who at 75 pounds, could’ve crushed Harvey’s little cat skull with a quick snap. If there was any question as to who the alpha of the household was, Harvey had a swift answer. 

When people came to our house, there was a laundry list of rules they had to follow to accommodate Harvey: No plastic bags (he’ll chew/swallow them), don’t leave water glasses unsupervised (he’ll knock them over), lock your luggage away (he’ll piss on it).   

Harvey’s surly attitude was also compounded by his numerous health issues he developed later in life—kidney failure, diabetes, a heart murmur. 

But now that he’s gone, I look back on his difficulties, his litany of needs, and it makes me miss him more. It’s funny how hard we can love the beings that are hardest to love. But as all cat owners will tell you, this is a special trait among felines: they teach you how they want to be treated. It’s a special co-existence. 

I still miss him every day. 

When Jessica and I first brought Harvey home, I thought: Welp, we just invested in the future saddest day of our lives. Morbid to think of your pet’s ultimate demise upon introduction. So we came up with a digestible euphemism: cat college. All dogs may go to heaven, but we all know that cats are intellectuals. And atheists. 

Harvey was named after the Batman villain, Harvey Dent aka Two-Face. It was a name we gave for black and white coloring on his face, but it also fit the good/evil binary that the comic villain represents. In one moment, Harvey would be sweet, loving, then a moment later would do something that made us question why we brought him into our home.

Once I was working on my computer while Harvey sat on the second-floor balcony of our apartment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something tiny scurry under a pile of clothes in my office. Oh my god, rats, I thought. 

I carefully lifted the clothes. Underneath was a little brown bird. Somehow, Harvey had coaxed a bird close enough for him to catch. 

When I picked the bird up, the head fell to the side, held on by only a flap of skin. Harvey had opened the poor little creature like a tin can. 

When I looked at Harvey, I swear he was smiling. Little psycho.

Harvey started having his serious health problems around September 2020, a stretch during the pandemic that felt especially hopeless. He was losing weight, lethargic, and never could get enough water. He’d wake us up every morning at 3:00 a.m., yowling for a sink drink. He was so consistent, and I was so sleep deprived, that I actually began to suspect Harvey could read the numbers on a digital clock.

We went to a number of costly vets until the folks at College Animal Hospital diagnosed his diabetes. From the end of 2020 until his passing, Harvey required insulin shots twice daily. 

He rebounded for a few years. His weight came back, and he started grooming himself again. In fact, when we got a dog in early 2023, it seemed to further invigorate Harvey: bullying a jumbo canine seemed to give new purpose to his life. 

But progress was short-lived. Spring 2024, Harvey became skinnier than ever. He couldn’t jump up on ledges without falling on his back (I’m not sure if animals experience embarrassment, but there’s an undeniable and heart-breaking indignity on their faces when they can’t do what they used to). Harvey started getting his claws stuck in fabric because he was no longer able to retract them. 

In April, Jessica broached the subject: “Maybe we should consider sending Harvey off to cat college this summer?” And my reaction was, “Why?” 

But she was right. Harvey was fifteen years old. He could no longer walk straight. He’d required specialized medical treatment for the last 5 years of his life. He was down to nearly eight pounds. At what point does keeping an animal alive become prolonging their suffering? 

Two weeks later, we found blood and a ripped-out claw. That was after three days of him puking up water. Plans for summer cat college became early enrollment. Jessica made the call, and for that I’m forever thankful. I don’t think I ever could. 

It was strange to have an expiration date for my best friend. There was always a part of me sort of thought it would never come. I just imagined that he’d be with us forever. 

For the next week, I didn’t let Harvey out of my sight. Every opportunity, I’d pick him up to kiss his head. I didn’t want to go to work or do anything social because there was only so much sand in the hourglass. But I did find a little solace in having a specific date for his departure, at least it was favorable than the unknowable. I can’t imagine the trauma of waking up one day to find him dead, and I was able to talk with family and friends who’d had similar experiences. But still. It fucking sucked. 

The night before Harvey’s appointment, we let him eat an entire tube of squeezable fish paste, his favorite snack. Our dog Porter (the victim of Harvey’s bullying) and other cat Vincent (normally so skittish) sat beside us as we talked about our favorite memories of Harvey, as if they knew something was up. Harvey curled up on my lap and fell asleep. 

When everyone else went to bed, I stayed on the couch with Harvey, watching TV until late in the night. He looked so sickly that I wondered if he’d even survive until morning. Honestly, I kind of hoped he wouldn’t, just so we wouldn’t have to go through what the next day held. 

In the morning, we loaded Harvey into his carrier. He’d been to the vet so many times over the past few years but he never got used to it. He’d put up a fight and yowl. On that morning, though, he was silent. I’m sure he knew where we were headed. It felt like he was being a role model, telling Jessica and I to be brave. 

I’d never put an animal down before. I grew up with lots of them, but I’d always been absent when it was time to do the hard thing. A few friends had told me that it means a lot to your animals if you’re present for the departure, but how does anyone know? It struck me as a uniquely human vanity to think our pets care when. But now I know they’re right. 

When the vet brought Harvey into the room—wrapped in a blanket, his little arms shaved, catheters waiting for deliverance—he couldn’t stop looking at me. He never squirmed or tried to get away. We just held eye contact. I know he was thankful.

Then the doctor came in and administered the drugs, and Harvey just sort of deflated in Jessica’s arms. His eyes remained open. The vet put a stethoscope to his chest. No sound. It took less than a minute and he was gone. 

I’ve never felt more bereft than when I took that empty cat carrier back to the car.

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I know this feels like a bummer to read, and I’m sorry if it upset you. But it’s not for me. I mean, yes, it took me all summer to complete this newsletter, pausing often when I got too sad. But I’m thankful for the grief, and grateful that I had a friend that touched my life so profoundly. 

I was correct that we invested in the future saddest day of our lives when we brought Harvey home, but I wouldn’t trade my time with him—even the hardships—for anything. He made me a better person, and I don’t want to forget that. 

Here’s to the king, the GOAT, my best friend, Harvey. I hope you’re having a good time at cat college. 

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