The Death of Ivan Ilyich's Cat

Ivan Ilyich's cat had a most simple and ordinary life. Which was a good thing, because he was a cat, after all.

But his death–his death–was most terrible.

In all fact, things had started off quite differently.

You see, I (Ivan Ilyich, that is) had brought a cat home many years ago. And during the swell of its youth, there was much joy.

I would be tempted to say that Ivan Ilyich's cat (that is, my cat) could have been Ivan Ilyich's (that is, my) best friend, although the question of whether or not a cat can have a best friend would be quite foreign to Ivan Ilyich’s cat, who would have found it not only not worth asking, but quite an impossible question to answer.

And it is of course unknown if, when Ivan Ilyich’s cat would nap peacefully on Ivan Ilyich’s lap, whether or not that was done as a true gift of soulful connection, or merely a location of selfish convenience. But in either scenario, the rhythmic purring of Ivan Ilyich’s cat would inevitably bring comfort and calm to the mind of Ivan Ilyich, whether or not that was intentionally shared or not. 

There was something.

It is not quite definable whether it was friendship or mere companionship.

Was it love?

Possibly.

But in any case, one day Ivan Ilyich's cat developed a terrible disease.

An illness without clear explanation descended upon Ivan Ilyich’s cat. Doctors, who claimed special knowledge in these matters, were consulted, and fees were collected, although the symptoms progressed in a manner unaffected by the doctors' medicines. 

Ivan Ilyich spared no effort in the quest to regain the health of his cat. At times, when this course of action appeared to falter, he only wished to understand why such a terrible sickness should select Ivan Ilyich's cat, who bore such special significance to him.

Still the doctors, who continued to collect the fees, seemed not always to understand the cause of the disease, but also to not understand what they themselves were saying.

The illness's course was most terrible, did not waver, and pulled Ivan Ilyich’s cat into greater and greater discomfort. 

After so many weeks and months of despair, I (Ivan Ilyich, that is) again sought some last hopeful treatment from the wise doctors.

But I was instead placed in a dark room with Ivan Ilyich’s cat, knowing only a desire for his suffering to come to an end.

Ivan Ilyich's cat did not despair. Did not look about him with vexation in his heart. He simply breathed with effort, perhaps not noticing the warm blanket the gentle nurse had wrapped him in.

I looked into the eyes of Ivan Ilyich's cat and saw only suffering. Silently, and deeply in my soul, I begged for a miracle. I promised to do anything, make any sacrifice, give my left kidney if need be, if only our former happiness could be restored.

And I looked into the eyes of my cat, and saw that his joy had already departed.