Dash (2008-2026)
I adopted Dash from a PetSmart at the Waterfront in Pittsburgh in 2012. He was a 4-year-old black cat with a white patch on his chest who would yell at anyone who dared pass by his cage. All I’d ever wanted was a black cat who hated other animals, and there he was, perfect. He wanted to be the only pet, the center of attention, the king of his domain.
The day I decided he was mine, I called the PetSmart, terrified someone else would snatch him up first. Luckily, he was still waiting. I still remember the woman on the phone as she told me she wouldn’t dare put me on hold because their music was absolutely terrible.
When my partner at the time and I drove to pick him up, another young couple was looking at kittens. My grumpy boy was running around swatting at them and keeping them in line. He also stole a bag of treats and was sneaking what he could get his paws on. He was a little terror, and I loved him for it.
Dash lived for treats. He was obsessed with catnip, but only the fresh kind, so I’d grow it for him on the windowsill. I taught him tricks like sitting and giving paw. He was brilliant at learning, always curious, always ready for the next adventure.
He was grumpy with other animals, but surprisingly sweet with people (unless they happened to be vets). He ran our household on a strict schedule, dictating not just when he ate, but when we woke up and when we went to bed. When I worked from home, he’d herd me from room to room, reminding me when it was time to stop and pay attention to what really mattered: him.
Over the years, we moved through three different states together. He flew in first class. He stayed in fancy hotels. He even sat with me on the roof at night, me gazing through my telescope at distant stars, him far more interested in sniffing every corner and batting at leaves.
But beyond the adventures, beyond the tricks and the treats, he became my anchor. Through the darkest stretches of my life, through sickness and heartbreak and those impossible days when nothing felt right, he was there. Always there, warm and steady, ready to curl up beside me and make the world feel a little less heavy.
He learned the exact sound my TV made when it turned on and knew it meant cuddle time. He learned to sense when panic was rising in my chest, would climb up and press himself against me, purring and purring until my breathing slowed and the world came back into focus.
Last year, Dash was diagnosed with splenic lymphoma. We fought it together, going through chemotherapy, stealing whatever time we could. True to form, Dash hated every second of it. The treatments, the vet visits, the other animals at the clinic, the medicine I had to coax down his throat at home (and even more that ended up on my pants). And still, it wasn’t enough. The protocols changed, we kept hoping, but the cancer was relentless. Then came the stroke, leaving him unsteady on his feet. Even then, we held on, finding joy in the quiet moments, the small victories of another day together.
But eventually, I had to face what I’d been trying not to see. He was fading. The spark that made him Dash, that joyful, demanding, beautiful spirit, was slipping away. The hardest thing I’ve ever done was choosing to let him go. Not because the cancer decided, but because I loved him too much to watch him suffer. I wanted to give him peace, to hold him as he left, surrounded by nothing but love.
He wasn’t just a companion. He wasn’t just a cat. He was my friend, my teacher in the art of loving without condition or expectation. I don’t know what I did to deserve fourteen years with him, but I’m grateful for every single moment.
Dash passed away today, March 15th, 2026, at eighteen years old. He had a long life, a good life, a life full of love and adventure. I’m so grateful I got to be part of it. I’m going to miss him more than words can hold.
Rest easy, my sweet boy. I love you so much. 🖤
