This story is part of our June 2026 issue. To read the print version, click here.

Before the vet walked into the exam room, I had no idea that a cat could be diabetic. But there I was, hearing that my life was about to change because my 15-and-a-half year-old cat, Pele, was going to need insulin injections every 12 hours for the rest of her life and that I’d be the one giving them to her.

It didn’t get any better when the online pet company I ordered insulin from expedited the shipment, only to forget the insulin. That led to an emergency run to CVS, where I had to set up a new pharmacy account in Pele’s name and decline that she would like to receive text messages with special offers.

On my second day, I thought I had double-dosed her, a potentially fatal move. It was another reminder of how trying to help can lead to exactly the opposite result, and I spent the morning finding an emergency vet, pulling honey out of the cupboard in case I needed to rub it on her gums to raise her blood sugar, and generally watching her sit calmly in her chair for several hours while I tried not to panic.

Fortunately, I hadn’t given her the extra dose, and she was fine. But it made me reflect on our complicated, and often rocky, relationship. Pele joined our family as a kitten when my son, now 28, was in middle school. We already had a dog and cat and I doubted we needed another pet, but my opinion was clearly irrelevant. After my ex sold our home in Arden Park, she arrived at my front door one day with a cat carrier and Pele looking out from behind the metal door.

The problem was that I already had a big, friendly orange cat, Chico, who had essentially been my inheritance from my mother. Chico was part pet, part soulmate. He and I went through a lot together, including my mother’s death at 93, suddenly moving out of our respective homes and even having to have all his teeth pulled because his body attacked them. Chico was always the life of the party and if you sat in the black recliner that had come with my house, he was in your lap whether he knew you or not.

Chico got along with everyone, including my neighbor’s pet bird and his best friend, a mostly blind stray cat who eventually ended up flying to a new home in Montana after I faced down a coyote that was about to have him as a snack. But Pele had taken an immediate dislike to Chico during their short time together at my previous house and that didn’t change when she arrived here. I learned more than once that a cat fight on the top of your bed — while you’re still in it, despite supposedly calming cat pheromones wafting through the room — is not a pleasant experience.

But after Chico passed in 2020, my resentment toward this gray tabby that the vet euphemistically called a “chunky monkey” slowly eased, especially because she likes to curl up next to me at night and has a habit of reaching out with her paw to ask for more when you stop scratching her head. Diabetes also came with a little side benefit for her: Because she had lost over a third of her body weight in less than a month prior to her diagnosis and was up there in years, the vet and I agreed to ditch her daily bland prescription dry cat food in favor of a buffet of Fancy Feast flavors.

It reminded me of when my mother, who was in her 90s and had graduated out of hospice — a feat in itself — would want apple strudel for breakfast. Given the reality of the situation, my siblings and I jettisoned the pretense that we had to force a healthy diet on her and begrudgingly made sure there was always an ample supply in her refrigerator. At some point, life is there only to enjoy as much as you can.

There are plenty of times I have been frustrated at Pele, such as when she pooped on the floor within two cat steps of a robotic litter box that I’m a little ashamed to admit how much I spent on it. But with her diagnosis, I’ve realized that our love-hate relationship has more love to it than hate. Just after the diabetes was confirmed, we were sitting on the bed and I told Pele that, yes, I do love her and will take care of her. Without prompting, she put her paw on my hand and left it there.

I’ve come to look at the twice-a-day shots as less of a burden and more as an opportunity to strengthen our bond while having a few special moments together. She’s doing well, but I have no idea what’s in store for this journey or how it will come to an end. But as we travel it alongside each other, I’ll enjoy for now hearing a soft purr and feeling a weight against my legs at night — and know I’ll miss them when they are no longer there.

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