Cats, Guilt, and the Things That Never Fully Leave

Since childhood, I have lived alongside cats. I’ve lost count of how many. They came and went—some stayed for years, others disappeared without a trace. Yet almost all of them left something behind. Not grand memories, but small details that are strangely hard to forget.

Cats, to me, were never just pets. They were companions who asked for nothing. When I felt tired, overwhelmed, or alone, their presence—simply sitting on my lap or letting me run my hand through their fur—was enough to make the world feel a little lighter. There were moments when I felt unseen by people, and it was the cats who offered the simplest, yet most genuine form of care.

But not all of these memories are sweet.

There is one incident from my childhood that still feels heavy to recall. I don’t remember exactly how old I was. What I do remember is that I did something deeply wrong. I threw two kittens roughly into a ravine. When they came back, I did it again. There is no excuse for that. Every time the memory resurfaces, the guilt cuts sharply. Even now, I am disturbed by the thought that I was capable of doing such a thing.

Strangely, one of those two kittens later lived with us for many years. It grew up alongside our family. The other kitten and their mother left, living wild, and I never knew how their story ended. The guilt never truly disappeared—it simply changed form, becoming a quiet awareness I continue to carry.

The cat we raised lived a long life. It was fed with great care, especially by my grandmother—my father’s mother—until it became plump and aged peacefully. Then one day, it was hit by a car. A sudden death, without farewell. The sadness wasn’t only about loss, but about the feeling that it should have come home that day.

There was also a time when someone claimed that cat as theirs, even though we had cared for it since I was a child. The claim hurt, as if a long, silent bond could simply be erased.

We kept many cats. Each had its own habits. One, in particular, remains vivid in my memory—it could open doors on its own, then every dawn gently tap our cheeks with its cold paws. Not merely because it was hungry, but as if it wanted to make sure we were awake, present, still there. Details like that stay with me more strongly than photographs ever could.

Now, we can no longer keep cats. Circumstances don’t allow it, and my mother does not like cats inside the house. I understand this, rationally. Still, there is an emptiness that’s hard to explain—a longing with nowhere to go.

Sometimes I realize that guilt, loss, and longing have blended into one feeling. Perhaps that is the consequence of having once truly connected with another living being. The cats came without promises, and they left without warning. But they left behind something that cannot be dismissed.

This piece is not a justification, nor a judgment of myself. It is simply an honest admission: that I once did wrong, once cared deeply, once lost, and still carry it all in silence.

And perhaps, this is how I continue to remember them.