Was I Capable of Killing My Cat for Bad Behavior?

One day in 1991, I thought about taking my healthy six-year-old cat to the ASPCA, where she would almost certainly have been “put down,” a.k.a. killed. I had adopted Suki when she was six months old and lived with her lovingly until a dramatic upheaval caused us to be (almost literally) at each other’s throats. After nearly two months of animosity, I’d reached a breaking point: She would have to go. That I would seriously consider doing this to a beloved pet revealed me to myself in a way that still gives me pause. It is remarkable how a relationship with an animal can do that.

I grew up having cats as pets, but I didn’t really own one as an adult until the age of 30; my circumstances were too unstable, and the few attempts I’d made as a teenager to adopt the cats that had shown up in my life didn’t end well. When I moved to Manhattan in my 20s and finally found a place to live, it was a tiny studio that I deemed too small for a cat to live in with any satisfaction. It would be, I thought, unfair to put an animal in that situation.

But then this cat showed up. One day in the spring of ’85, I was walking down 8th Street when I heard loud meowing — to my surprise, it seemed to be coming from a parked car surrounded by a small crowd of people who were looking under the body and the hood. As I came closer, someone said, “There it is!” before pulling from deep under the hood a limp, very shocked, loudly crying adolescent tabby cat. Because the driver of the car had no idea where the little cat had come from, because no one else volunteered, and because I lived close by, I offered to provide her with temporary shelter (plus vet care; her paws were burned) and find her a home. But the latter proved near impossible, and during the time it took to realize that, Suki and I had bonded. She was wonderfully intelligent, full of energy and play but also tenderness and desire for affection. And she seemed to be very comfortable in my studio.

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