In Memory of Jäger

This post is a small memorial to my lovely cat Jäger, who sadly passed away last week. I’m writing this post in order to gather some memories, photos, and thoughts about the time we shared, and to mark how important he was to me.

Jäger only came to live with us in June, following the death of his owner – my Godfather, Mike Hobday. But we have known Jäger all his life – I have clear memories of feeding him, and playing with him and his sister, Bomb, as kittens.

After Hobbers died, at first we fed him at his flat. We didn’t yet know what to do and assumed at this point that we’d be looking to find someone to adopt him. He was clearly traumatised, having lost his owner; There was also building work going on in the flat upstairs, with constant noise and banging, which must have terrified him. The clearout of the flat had started, so Jäger’s home was no longer the safe haven he was used to.

It was during this time that I took my first photos of Jäger – sitting on top of the fridge, too scared to come anywhere near me; Hiding in a huge pile of junk in what had been the living room, staying there all day because the noise from upstairs was too much; Hiding under the sofa, where he not only let me stroke him for the first time, but I managed to get a purr out of him for the first time; Hiding in the kitchen cupboard, then emerging when I entered the flat. He was starting to trust me.

We concluded that bringing Jäger to live with us felt like the best option. He had lost his owner, his home, and his sister. As an older cat (around 12 years old), finding someone to adopt him would have been difficult. While feeding him at his flat, I started to form a bond with him, and we began wondering whether our own cats, Sooty and Ziggy, might appreciate a ginger friend.

Sooty, being the territorial “top cat” of the household, took a while to accept an older cat coming into his home. Over time, while they never became best friends, he did come to accept Jäger as part of the family. Ziggy was a little more timid, and would often run out of the room when Jäger came down the stairs. As Jäger was more of an indoor cat and spent most of his time upstairs, Ziggy tended to stay downstairs.

Jäger himself was such a gentle and calm presence in the house. It was so comforting to have him curl up with me on the bed. He’d reach out to me with his paws, give me a friendly lick, and I loved hearing him purr.

For the first couple of weeks, we gave him his own room, keeping him separate from the other cats. During the day we’d let him out so they could slowly get used to each other. Jäger never really wanted to go outside – he seemed perfectly happy indoors.

One night, around 11:30, he came downstairs and casually went out through the cat flap. Jäger had never lived in a house before. He’d never used a cat flap. And yet, before we even realised what was happening, he was gone.

At the time we didn’t know whether this was a good sign or a bad one. Was he running away? Was he unhappy here? I went out into the garden to look for him, but there was no sign of him at all.

We got our answer a few hours later. We’d all gone to bed, with Sooty curled up beside me. At around two in the morning I was woken by hissing and growling. Jäger had come back – and instead of returning to the room we’d been shutting him into at night, he’d come straight into my bedroom.

I shut him back in his room and climbed back into bed. The next thing I knew, he was back in my bedroom again. Jäger, it turned out, was an escape artist.

It was mid-summer – I should have known. What he’d done was climb out of the bedroom window of his room, onto the conservatory roof, back in through the open window of Mum and Dad’s bedroom, and from there walk straight into mine – and reclaimed my bedroom!

This was the moment I began to realise that Jäger had latched onto me.

Once Jäger had settled, he quickly made the upstairs his own. He very quickly claimed ownership of my bedroom and would often curl up on my bed, sometimes on the pillow next to me. He’d curl up on my chest, rubbing against my face, and purr very loudly.

My bedroom also doubles as my home studio: It’s where I do my radio show twice a week. If he wasn’t curled up on the bed, he loved sitting on the desk, often right on top of my laptop. He’d sit and watch lovingly as I did my radio show, brushing his head against the microphone, or watching me operate the faders on the mixing desk – sometimes even trying to play with the faders himself. Perhaps he felt I was talking to him, and not to the listeners!?

He found his own unique ways of getting my attention: paws in my face, grabbing hold of my arms. He also became very good at waking me up during the night, demanding food. Before long, this meant we got into the habit of feeding him before bed so that I could get a good night’s sleep…though I learned not to feed him too early, otherwise I’d just be woken up for an even earlier breakfast.

Since he was spending most of his time upstairs, and mostly in my room, I thought he might enjoy having some toys to keep him entertained. From a local pet shop I bought some catnip-filled balls – three of them, one for each cat – and he absolutely loved them. Sooty did too. Between them, they destroyed those toys completely, ripping them open and leaving a trail of catnip across the floor. A fishing rod toy also became a favourite, and I often used it as a way of encouraging Jäger and Sooty to play together.

He also loved sleeping next to the lovely blue octopus – a soft toy my friend Hannah bought me on one of her trips last year. Jäger adored that octopus, as well as my childhood soft toy Rodney, which he’d often curl up beside too. Then there was the toy fish my Dad got all the cats for Christmas. I have a lovely photo of him playing with it on my desk, on Christmas Day morning.

Quite simply, Jäger was a very loving and caring cat, who also loved to play whenever he got the chance.

It was around Christmas and New Year when we began to notice that something wasn’t quite right, though at the time we didn’t fully understand it. Jäger had started eating less. He went from finishing his food in one go and leaving an empty bowl, to eating only half, and then eventually very little at all. In hindsight it was a slow, gradual change – subtle enough that it didn’t immediately ring alarm bells.

In early January, we decided to take him to the vets, just to get him checked over. It was there that it became clear that Jäger was actually very unwell. The examination showed that he had multiple tumours growing inside him, all of them inoperable, as well as a build-up of fluid in his abdomen. From that point on, it was clear that things were only heading in one direction. We were talking in terms of weeks or months, not years.

The illness had clearly been brewing for some time – these things don’t reach an “inoperable” stage overnight. Cats are also extremely good at hiding pain, so by the time we noticed something was wrong, it truly was.

Even so, we agreed to see what could be done to keep him comfortable. Despite how ill he was, Jäger was still very much himself in other ways – still curling up on the bed with me, his purr comforting me at night. Still enjoying helping me make my radio show. A steroid injection at the vets had him eating normally again almost as soon as we got home. It was only short-acting, lasting around 48 hours, but during that time he really did seem to bounce back, as though he was telling us, “I’m not done yet.“

Because of that, we agreed to try one more thing. The fluid was drained, and he was given another injection.

This time, though, it didn’t work. The growth inside him had simply become too much for his body to manage. Although he ate well immediately after coming home, he declined rapidly over the following week. He still seemed happiest and most comfortable with me, sleeping on my bed, with Sooty nearby – but there were also times when he was clearly uncomfortable and in pain, and all he wanted to do was hide away.

By this point, Sooty had gone from being wary of his ginger friend to being surprisingly gentle and caring. The two of them were able to get close enough to sniff each other, to quietly acknowledge one another. I wonder if Sooty purring as they were curled up beside me on the bed, may have been a source of comfort for Jäger too!?

On Jäger’s final night, Sooty even gave him a friendly lick – perhaps his way of saying goodbye. Cats are sensitive creatures, and their scent changes when their health declines. I think Sooty, and Jäger too, must have known that the end was near.

I think by this point, during his final week, our focus was simply on keeping Jäger comfortable and letting him feel safe and loved, even if we didn’t know how short his time with us would be. I adjusted everything around him, keeping things calm and familiar, and letting him rest wherever he felt most at ease. If he wanted attention, I’d drop whatever I was doing for him.

He spent much of that time close to me, sleeping on the bed or curled up in my lap, or on my desk; his purr still a source of comfort. Even as his strength faded, that gentle presence remained, and I wanted him to know he wasn’t alone.

Last Friday, Jäger passed away peacefully at the vets. During his final moments he was curled up in my lap, purring; Mum and I were with him to say our goodbyes. He was calm, comforted, and deeply loved right to the end.

Jäger came into my life at a time when I was already learning a great deal about myself through Equine Assisted Therapy – about presence, boundaries, trust… how animals respond to energy and emotion is a big part of that. Without consciously trying to, I found myself applying so much of what I was learning there to Jäger. I paid close attention to how he reacted to me, what made him feel calm, and how he communicated his needs.

Jäger had always been a one-person cat, having lived most of his life just with Hobbers (and, of course, his sister Bomb). He bonded with me completely – much more than with anyone else in our house – and rarely went into Mum and Dad’s room. It was almost as if he’d imprinted on me in the way birds do. From choosing my bedroom, to following me from room to room, to insisting on being close whenever he could, to coming downstairs to check on me when I was ill over Christmas, it was obvious that he’d decided I was his person. We found each other, and that was that – the rest is history.

In many ways, Jäger became a kind of therapy cat for me. He brought structure to my days, comfort to my nights, and a constant, grounding presence at a time when I was – and still am – in recovery from mental illness. His affection was unconditional, his companionship unwavering. He made me laugh, made me feel needed, and reminded me daily that I was loved and cared for.

We only had seven months together (though of course, I’d known him since he was a kitten, 12 years ago): But that short time he lived with us mattered: Deeply. Jäger didn’t just fill a space in my life – he enriched it. And for that, I will always be grateful.

What I’ll miss most are the ordinary, everyday moments: waking up to him curled beside me; feeling his weight settle on my chest, his paws reaching out for reassurance. His sharp claws were often a source of annoyance for me, but in truth that sensory input meant everything – for me, as an autistic person. Now those claws are gone, I miss them.

I’ll miss hearing his intense purr while I worked at my desk, or feeling him brush past the microphone as I made my radio show. I’ll miss the way he followed me from room to room, the way he checked on me when I wasn’t well, and the simple comfort of knowing he was there. Those small moments meant everything, and they’re the ones I’ll carry with me.

I still keep expecting him to jump up onto the bed, or onto my desk. I quietly whisper his name to myself. There is a Jäger-shaped hole in my bedroom – and in my life – and that will be hard to fill.