Bagheera, the cat who saved his human’s life

Bagheera was supposed to be a temporary foster but, for Dr Loshi Rajen, he ended up being so much more. (Loshi Rajen pic)

I knew I was his the moment I looked into his eyes.

He was a tiny, scrawny creature I’d found in a hospital drain in Perlis, five years ago. I’d brought him home to clean him up – out of fear that the next heavy rainfall would sweep him away.

He was supposed to stay with me just one night. One night became a week.

Though I kept telling myself it was temporary, I named him. I even sent a list of black-cat names to my best friends. But the truth is, I had already chosen the name myself. He was Bagheera. He had to be. My little black panther.

He was no bigger than my palm. I would cradle him and sing his name in a lullaby I’d made up on the spot.

At first, I told myself he could stay until he was old enough to fend for himself. Later, I told myself I’d leave him behind once I got transferred back to my home state in southern Malaysia.

But when the time came to leave, I realised I had been lying to myself all along. I couldn’t abandon him any more than I could have carved out my own heart and left it on the street.

From that moment on, Bagheera never left my side.

Baby Bagheera during his very first visit to the vet. (Loshi Rajen pic)

As I moved around the country for work, training to be a psychiatrist, from one state to another, from hospital to hospital – he followed. He was my shadow. My little spitfire, cloaked in black fur.

He used to sleep on my legs every night – except on the nights he was scolded or lightly tapped on the rump for misbehaving. Then he would sulk in the laundry basket, tail twitching, waiting with theatrical indignation.

He knew full well that by bedtime, if he wasn’t in his usual spot, I would be kneeling beside the laundry basket, apologising out loud and begging for forgiveness. Only then would he saunter back to bed and settle on my legs.

On cold nights, he would burrow under the covers. Many times, I’d accidentally kick him in my sleep, forgetting he was curled beneath the blanket. But his warmth became my shield against the coldest storms in my life.

Bagheera came to me at the height of the pandemic, when I was 800km from home, working long, relentless hours as a medical doctor. The toll of the pandemic was crushing. The isolation was worse. He saved my sanity.

Later, he saved my life.

Ever the savvy traveller, Bagheera would accompany his human wherever she went. (Loshi Rajen pic)

During one of the lowest periods in my career – when I endured relentless workplace bullying – I contemplated ending my life. I might have done it, if not for the thought of Bagheera being abandoned again, forced to return to the streets.

He was a savvy traveller. On long car rides, he’d curl up on the passenger seat. At red lights, he’d stretch and peer out the window.

He cried like a baby in the mornings – either for food or affection, or both. He chewed on my fingers as a pastime, a habit I never managed to train him out of.

When I was offered a job in London, it wasn’t easy to leave him and his sibling, Aarav, behind.

I couldn’t find a rental property that would allow me to bring them. It took time to find a vet I trusted enough to leave my children with. Eventually, I chose one – kind, careful, thorough – and Bagheera spent the final year of his life living in the vet’s practice, while I made preparations for relocation so we could be reunited.

That year, he was diagnosed with feline bronchial asthma. The vet assured me it was manageable. As a doctor and a mother, I still worried – googling studies, reading journals, calculating risks – but I also knew that mortality rates from asthma were much lower now, and I took comfort in that.

Enjoying his favourite pastime – finger chewing. (Loshi Rajen pic)

Until Friday, June 27. Just about a month ago. At 3.40am British time, I received a text from the vet: “Are you awake?”

My phone had been on Do Not Disturb. I shouldn’t have woken up. But I did. I replied yes. And stayed awake wondering. Heart racing.

The phone rang an hour later. The vet didn’t say hello. He said: “Bad news.”

My mind froze. By the time it restarted, he had already finished delivering the news, in Tamil. “Bagheera is dead.”

I hung up on him.

I couldn’t sleep again after that. At the time, I didn’t think I’d ever sleep again.

Work started at 9am. My first patient was scheduled for 10am. In the time between, I bought tickets – obscenely expensive tickets, priced like the seats were made of gold – and planned my journey home.

Sleep well, sweet Bagheera. (Loshi Rajen pic)

I contacted a pet funeral service based in Petaling Jaya that was willing to collect Bagheera’s body from the vet’s practice in Seremban so the arrangements could begin before I arrived.

I flew 22,000km – a total of 24 hours from London to Kuala Lumpur and back again – over a weekend to say goodbye to my child. To hold him in my arms, cradled one last time as I used to do since he was a kitten all the way to adulthood.

Some people asked, “For a cat?” I told them a family member had died. And that was the truth.

This isn’t just a story about a cat. It’s about the kind of love that saves us, and the kind of grief we’re often asked to hide.

I wrote it for myself, and for anyone who has ever had the good fortune of finding family in an animal – and having to say goodbye.

This article was written by Dr Loshi Rajen, a psychiatrist who turns to words when feelings grow too big to hold. 

TELL US ABOUT YOUR PET: FMT Lifestyle readers are invited to send in pictures (landscape format) and a short video (if any) of their furry, scaly or feathered friends to [email protected]. Don’t forget to include details like your pet’s name, age, breed and a short story about them.