He was my soul cat—a big, marmalade orange tabby who lived to be nineteen. For the first fifteen years of his life, he was a force of nature. He could scale the refrigerator in a single bound. He would chase a laser pointer until he was panting.
Then, somewhere around his sixteenth birthday, he changed.
He stopped greeting me at the door. He spent more time sleeping in the back of the linen closet. He stopped jumping on his favorite window perch to watch the birds.
I remember sipping my coffee, looking at him sleeping on the rug, and thinking with a smile, “Look at him. He’s just becoming a dignified old gentleman. He’s enjoying his retirement.”
I thought he was slowing down because he wanted to.
I didn't realize until much later—after a vet visit for something else entirely—that he wasn't "dignified."
He was in pain.
He wasn't sleeping on the rug because he preferred it; he was sleeping there because it was the only place he didn't have to climb to reach.
We miss these signs not because we don't love them. We miss them because cats are biological masters of disguise.
In the wild, a predator that shows a limp becomes prey. A cat that cries out attracts coyotes. So, they are hardwired to suffer in silence. They mask their weakness to stay alive.
Today, I want to share the signs I missed with Jasper. I want to help you see through the mask.
KEY TAKEAWAY:
Pain in cats almost never looks like crying or whining.
It looks like "slowing down." It looks like "grumpiness."
If we learn to translate these 5 subtle shifts in behavior, we can catch the pain years earlier and give them their comfort back.