He came to heal my heart when he was only 9 months old. I’d just lost my 12-year-old Ragdoll, and the fluffy, outgoing soul picked me by reaching though the door of his kennel at the shelter because he wanted to pet me and be cuddled in return. Part Maine Coon, the tiny Captain Jack Sparrow (Jack for short) grew into his name, and as he grew up, his place in my heart grew right along with him. Both my son and my husband told me that I loved Jack more than I did either of them, which of course, wasn’t true. I just loved the human guys differently. Jack and I had mutual admiration and a natural affinity for each other. He was my closest friend.
The progression of Jack’s disease went quickly. In March of the 12th year I had shared my life with him, I noticed he wasn’t himself and was demonstrating symptoms of illness. His appetite was diminished, and his luxurious coat was raggedy. The diagnosis for that first illness was pancreatitis. The end of May arrived, and Jack had become more clingy than usual and then began withdrawing in early June, which is when things started going terribly wrong. He wasn’t using his cat box, he was at the water bowl constantly, and then he began hiding for the entire day. His coat looked worse than before, and he seemed both uncomfortable and exhausted all the time.
The next diagnosis came at the end of June: diabetes mellitus. The treatment plan I was given was labor intensive and expensive. I had just found work after two years of applying for jobs after graduate school, and the components of Jack’s treatment that day cost more than my first paycheck at my recently acquired full-time job. The worst of the new treatment plan was the undercurrent of dread I carried with me into our new life because I knew deep down that Jack wasn’t going to respond well to it.
I began giving insulin shots every single day—twice a day at the same time each day—without fail. I served the prescription food and cried every day because Jack was so hungry and he always looked at me with pleading eyes and emitted plaintive cries. Social isolation for me resulted from the strict times for the shot administrations. I began to withdraw from my social safety net just as Jack was withdrawing from me. Both of us were experiencing a diminishing quality of life as I grieved for our lost relationship, and he struggled against his body.
For four Saturdays in a row, I dutifully fed and vaccinated Jack before I took him across town to be poked for his glucose test. His insulin remained stubbornly high, and I was beginning to lose hope that recovery was something Jack wanted. He seemed so tired. On the Thursday before that fourth glucose test, we had a bad night. For some reason, I woke up and decided to go spend time with him. I found Jack on the bed in the spare room. When he looked at me, we seemed not to recognize each other. His look was haunted, and he immediately jumped off the bed and pressed himself into the farthest corner, as far away from me as he could possibly get.
On the fourth Saturday, I prepared his meager breakfast and administered his shot as he ate so that we could go to the vet for his test. He turned to look at me, and his eyes seemed to say, “Really, lady?”, not “I adore you, Mom.” That’s when I knew we were parting ways. One of our vets informed me that day that Jack’s condition could be managed clinically, but the emotional damage that was occurring most likely could not be repaired. I chose not to ask him to suffer any longer for something he clearly did not want. We parted ways for good that day. Sometimes I still cry for him and every July 16th I sit with his memory and wish it could have all ended differently.
Ten years later, while I still carry Jack’s experience with me, my heart is renewed with a sense of hope. The time I shared with Jack was both wonderful and painful, but his life has taught me valuable lessons. I learned about what matters to me—finding a way for cats and those who care about them to not have to suffer as Jack and I did. Just as I have learned something important from every cat that has come into my care, the EveryCat Feline Health Foundation continues to provide researchers with opportunities to learn more about feline diseases and treatments. This research is not only lifesaving for cats, but it is also contributing to the quality of life for those who care about them. Up to this point, EveryCat has funded grants for 15 studies about diabetes myelitis, 2 studies regarding connections between pancreatitis and diabetes mellitus, and 1 study about the impacts of diabetes treatment to owner/cat relationships. The mission of EveryCat provides a method for hope through insight into diseases, detection, treatment, and development of positive outcomes. This formula also offers hope for me as I nurture new feline lives and grieve for the loss of my old ones.
Join EveryCat Health Foundation during our 2026 “Springing into Action” campaign and help us fund on-going diabetes studies! Donate to The O’Malley Fund for Diabetes and Endocrinopathies HERE.
About the Author:
Sharon Graham-Ellis believes volunteering is a way of creating positive changes in the world. She began her volunteer journey by socializing cats at the local shelter and taking friendly cats to visit assisted living facilities. She has personally rescued over a dozen cats, five of which were saved from a puppy mill. All her rescues have been placed in forever, indoor homes. Sharon is a former journalist and published author of creative non-fiction essays and fiction novels. She currently works as a professional editor and grammarian and lends her skills to helping in her most recent volunteer endeavor as a writer and editor for EveryCat Health Foundation. She and her husband, James, also volunteer at area Cat Fests. She currently lives in Northern Colorado with her three rescue cats and James, where they all enjoy the fresh air while hanging out in their catio enclosure.
