Read time: 4 min.

Not that long ago, “feeding the cat” meant pouring little pebbles into a bowl and walking away. Disco and Zulu handled the rest themselves. Lately, though, I’ve found myself kneeling on the floor and squeezing pâté for Disco from a tiny plastic tube. I’m not sure how I feel about it.

My brother and I grew up as dog people. After my parents divorced, Dad cycled through a whole lineup! Years later, it came as a shock when Disco unexpectedly appeared on a pandemic-era Zoom call with my brother. I don’t know what possessed him to get a cat, but a few years later, both moved in.

I felt an immediate kinship when I learned Disco had been born in a barn since I’m semi-feral myself. Before John adopted her, she’d curl up and away from the chaos under a heat lamp. Between that and a big, fat possum that helped itself to most of her meals, Disco topped out at about six pounds.

Still, Disco turned out to be a full-fledged mischief-maker: tiny, fast, and determined to explore anything she wasn’t supposed to. Early on, John had to clip her harness to a dumbbell just to keep her out of trouble! 

Disco’s six now, and she’s calmed down a little since I adopted my own cat, Zulu, a few years ago. Disco’s main job is supervising my blog, and she accomplishes that by climbing onto my desk and draping herself across my arms while I try to type. That’s exactly where she was the other day when we realized something wasn’t right.

As it turns out, Disco had a dental issue that escalated quickly. Surgery came soon. When I picked her up, the vet tech told me she could go right back to solid food. That sounded fine at first, but something soft made more sense to me. That’s when we discovered Delectables chicken Squeeze Ups- the feline equivalent of Go-Gurt. 

There’s something unexpectedly intimate about hand-feeding a little cat out of a tiny tube. It’s more than an absent-minded scoop of pellets in a bowl. This new method of feeding Disco requires me to stop, kneel down, and spend time with her. It’s just me, a plastic packet with some gross chicken slurry, and a small animal who trusts me completely. 

I squeeze the pouch, Disco leans in, and she starts lapping it up. Slowly and steadily, we fall into a rhythm. Whether she knows it or not, she’s asking something of me; to stay here, keep going, and don’t rush things. I don’t. 

Whatever it is, it feels good. Things matter in a way that’s hard to explain. I’m not just feeding her- I’m taking care of her! Still, there’s something somber underneath it too. 

I think it’s the vulnerability. Cats are supposed to be self-sufficient. Most are aloof, capable, and a little removed. That’s part of what makes a cat’s affection feel earned. Seeing Disco needing help with something as basic as eating pulled that curtain back a bit. She’s smaller than I thought. More fragile, even, and that’s where the sadness creeps in. 

I’ve been dealing with depression lately. My job hunt hasn’t gone anywhere, my stepdad died, and all of it has started to wear. Lately, everything has pulled me into the familiar kind of doldrums that have left me stuck in my own head. Moments like feeding Disco haven’t just made me aware of what she is- they’ve made me aware of how long I’ll have her. 

One day, far off but not far enough, there will be a last time she and I do this. One last squeeze of the tube; one last quiet moment on the floor. I’m not mourning Disco yet, but I’m aware of her in a way I haven’t been before.

At any rate, the Squeeze Up spurts out. She sniffs it, then leans in again. For a minute, the world narrows. Little Disco and I are here. Regardless of what swirls around us, that’s enough.