It’s been two years since the original post, but the internet remains a vast space echoing with similar stories. For the past few days, I’ve been lost in articles and forums, desperately seeking solace from the crushing guilt that follows Surrendering A Cat to the humane society. Sharing my story feels like the only way to find a sliver of relief, even if it just floats into the digital void.
My cat, Beau – affectionately known as Bobo – joined my life at seven months old. His early months were spent as a feral cat in the city, shaping him into a perpetually anxious, skittish, and fearful creature. Yet, the moment he met my resident cat, Oliver, his timid exterior began to soften, and he tentatively embraced his new home. Once Bobo chose me as his person, he transformed into a snuggle bug, showering me with affection. The trouble started subtly, a few months in, with instances of urination outside the litter box. Initially, it was just clothes or blankets, easily dismissed as accidents.
Life shifted as Oliver, Bobo, and I relocated across the country, embarking on a new chapter together. During the isolating months of quarantine and a period of deep depression, these two cats were my anchors. Their unconditional love was a lifeline, and I genuinely believe I wouldn’t have navigated that darkness without them. However, Bobo’s out-of-litter-box urination escalated, despite my consistent efforts with Feliway and other anxiety-reducing aids. It progressed to furniture, not territorial marking, but full bladder release. Then, a cocker spaniel puppy joined our family. Bobo surprisingly welcomed her immediately, quickly establishing himself as the most submissive of the trio. He even enjoyed cuddling with both Oliver and the puppy. Still, the inappropriate urination persisted.
Driven to find a solution, I consulted my vet, who conducted extensive medical tests, all returning negative. We experimented with various diets – with no change. Anxiety medication was introduced – also ineffective. Dental issues emerged, leading us to believe discomfort might be the trigger. A costly dental surgery followed, but heartbreakingly, the peeing continued. After losing two beds, two chairs, an ottoman, and a couch to urine damage, the unsettling realization dawned: perhaps something about my home environment was fundamentally wrong for Bobo. The thought of rehoming flickered in my mind, but Bobo’s unique personality and specific behavioral challenges made it seem an impossible task.
My final attempt to help Bobo involved a consultation with a feline behaviorist, who visited my home to observe him and his surroundings. We meticulously adjusted litter box placements, experimented with different litters, and I implemented every recommendation to create a less anxiety-inducing environment. Despite our combined efforts, nothing worked. Both the specialist and my vet reached the same conclusion: there was likely an element within my home that was inherently overstimulating for Bobo, possibly making it an unsuitable long-term environment for him. There were no guarantees, but the consensus leaned towards a change being necessary.
Three days ago, after five years of unwavering love for Bobo and over three years of relentless attempts to resolve his behavioral issues, I made the agonizing decision to surrender him to my local humane society. The staff were incredibly compassionate and validating, reassuring me, “You did everything right. He needs a quieter environment.” Yet, since saying that final goodbye, I’ve been consumed by a relentless wave of grief and guilt. Images of him in the shelter, terrified and confused, haunt me. I wrestle with the self-reproach of being the one who subjected him to this upheaval. Even though my home might have triggered his anxiety, it was the only home he had ever truly known, and I am the only human he ever formed a deep bond with. The house feels eerily empty without his presence, even with my two other beloved animals. I catch glimpses of him everywhere, a phantom weight in the silence.
A powerful part of me aches to call the humane society, to confess that I’ve made a terrible mistake, and beg to bring him back. I tell myself I’ll cope with the endless cleaning, endure the damaged furniture, and accept his anxiety for the rest of his life because that’s what he deserves. I don’t even know if they would even consider reversing the surrender, but the yearning to have him back is overwhelming. The gnawing guilt intensifies knowing he’s out there, still alive, likely experiencing heightened anxiety in an unfamiliar, stressful shelter environment. I am adrift in doubt and pain. Have I made an irreparable error, driven by exhaustion and desperation, or have I genuinely acted in his best interest, however heartbreakingly? The answer remains elusive, lost in a fog of guilt and unanswered questions.
