Loki was my soul cat. He wasn’t just a companion. He was a part of me. The light of my life, my best friend, my everything. The kind of cat whose presence made any space feel like home. I called him my “velcro kitty,” my husband called him “Mama’s boy,” and we both joked that I was his “needy human.” We were that close.
In late 2023, Loki began straining in the litter box. At first, I thought it might be a blockage, a dangerous emergency in male cats. We rushed to the ER, more than once. After hospitalization and several tests, we received news that changed everything. During an ultrasound, an Internal Medicine specialist spotted a mass. We didn’t yet know if it was cancerous, but we knew it had to come out. Loki was barely eating. You could see in his eyes that he just didn’t feel well.
Surgery confirmed the worst. The tumor was an aggressive adenocarcinoma, and it had already metastasized. There was no cure.
Having worked in animal rescue, and with some background in feline oncology, I understood the road ahead. Cats can respond well to chemotherapy, and we were fortunate to have the means to try. We spent well over $10,000 on diagnostics, surgery, and treatment. I often think about the people who would’ve had to stop at the first ER visit or not even be able to consider the ER to begin with. Every cat deserves a chance, but access to care is often determined by financial limits.
We began treatment, hoping to slow the cancer’s progression and give us all quality time. In the months that followed, there were glimpses of joy that made it all worth it. Loki enjoyed all his favorite things, soaked up sun puddles, and began eating again. I clung to each small victory and to him. But behind the scenes, the cancer was still working and I knew it. I spent much of December and January quietly grieving what was to come, then learned to stay present in the time we still had. I stopped trying to guess how many days we had left and instead focused on the love between us. Some days were harder than others. Some days
I felt angry. And then guilty for feeling angry. But every day, I loved him with all I had.
Loki crossed the Bridge on April 29, 2024, just five months after his diagnosis. That morning was surreal. I knew the day was coming, but I didn’t want it to be so soon. Around 2:00 p.m., Loki walked to our favorite spot and settled in. He was so peaceful. He didn’t run when the vet arrived. By 2:30, he was no longer in my world. I think about him every day. I still cry. The grief sits beside me, woven into the fabric of my life. I feel his absence in the quiet moments and even in some of the noisy ones.
What I wish most now is that we’d had more time. That the answers had come sooner. That feline cancer wasn’t still so under-researched, underfunded, and poorly understood. Loki was my one-in-a-million, but I know I’m not alone. Too many cats and their people face this kind of heartbreak with too few resources and poorly researched options. This is why I support EveryCat Health Foundation.
Research into feline health, especially cancer, gives hope. It’s not just about treatment. It’s about understanding disease, earlier detection, and creating better outcomes for the cats we love. If sharing Loki’s story helps one more cat live longer or more comfortably, then it’s worth it.
Because they’re not “just cats.” They’re our everything. ~Christine Lugo
Christine Lugo has loved animals her entire life and has volunteered with them for as long as she can remember. After nearly two decades in finance and operations, she trained as a Veterinary Technician and earned a Fear Free Sheltering certification. Now serving as President of the Peter Zippi Memorial Fund, a nonprofit cat rescue, she is inspired by her soul cat Loki, adopted from PZ in 2010, to help cats live healthier, happier lives.
