Recently, I had to put down my 20-year-old cat. The timeline was sudden. On a Friday morning, I took her to the vet and she was gone by that evening. Aside from meowing loudly, Paku was still her affable self. But blood work revealed she was most likely suffering from cancer and kidney failure. Because of her age, and because she had also stopped eating and drinking, the most compassionate thing to do was let her go.  

I’d had to do this five years earlier with her sister, so I wasn’t in unfamiliar territory. Cats are tricky because they can hide illnesses for so long, often until it’s too late to do anything. Her sister Nia’s death was sudden, too. But this time was a bit more painful because of Paku’s outlook on life.

Paku was unyieldingly friendly (unlike her sister, who was anxious and fond of hiding behind the couch whenever she heard an unfamiliar voice.) My family joked that Paku was a “ca-dog” because she’d prance up to anyone, hop into their lap, and fully expect some behind-the-ear scratches, more akin to how a dog operates than a feline.  

Paku was a domestic shorthair cat, and their average life span is 13 to 17 years when kept indoors, which she was. The fact that she lived until 20 is akin to a human living until nearly 100. When I pause to think about that, I’m grateful she lived such a long, full life and often wondered how she did it—especially since she came from the same litter as her sister, yet outlived her by five years.  

Over the years, I came to think my two cats represented “who I am” (Nia) and “who I’d like to be” (Paku). As I mourn Paku’s passing, I’m also coming to look at her life as a lesson not only in longevity in general but in how to have a long, fulfilling career. Here’s what I’ve learned—and what I hope to do more of. 

Adapt quickly to change 

I found Paku and Nia when they were only about six weeks old, in the parking lot of the newspaper where I worked when I was 22. Two colleagues, who had experience with cats, helped me pull them from underneath a car, teaching me how to grab them by the scruff of their necks, and helped me raise funds to pay for the initial vet bills.

The two kittens quickly settled into my one-bedroom apartment in Atlanta. Nia scampered up the fireplace, trying to escape, and Paku went to work scratching up my bed’s box spring. I remember wondering what I had gotten myself into, adopting two rambunctious kitties, as a recent college graduate with my first job.  

Several years later, I flew with them to New Hampshire, where they lived with my grandparents while I was in grad school. Then it was to a fourth-floor walkup in New York City that I shared with my future husband, where my closet served as their litter box area, adjacent to my shoes and sheath dresses.

When my husband got a job offer to move to Beijing, I put my foot down: The only way I was going was if the cats came, too. He somehow negotiated with his company to fly the cats to Hong Kong, where they could circumvent a 30-day quarantine period, and then be flown to China’s capital.  

With each move, Paku seemed to adjust better, and more quickly. I found this curious; as she got older I thought she’d become more set in her ways and take longer to adjust like her sister. But the more Paku moved, the more resilient she became, as if she was training a muscle by putting in more reps.

With the pace at which work changes these days—return-to-office mandates, layoffs, restructurings and more—the faster we adapt to such moves, the better off we’ll be. Not because we don’t feel uncomfortable, but because we’ve had more experiences and more tools to help us transition more quickly.   

Forgive fast  

Like so many pets, Paku endured the excitement (and overeagerness) of two children, who poked, pushed, hit, and laid on her as they learned what the word gentle meant. Nia, who only my eldest lovingly tortured, would sometimes scratch or nip my daughter when she’d had enough. Paku, on the other hand, never lashed out with her nails or teeth, and would just let out a long meow as if to say “knock it off” if my daughters had done too much. When Nia would pad off to recuperate behind a piece of furniture, Paku forgave quickly. She didn’t run away when a little hand came forth again.  

As someone who has struggled to let go and often acts more like Nia when hurt, I never ceased to be amazed by how quickly Paku would just move on. After a particularly bad incident when my youngest dragged her by her tail across the floor, I found myself yelling at my toddler until she was in tears. Paku, who was in my arms, seemed completely unfazed once she was out of harm’s way. When I put her down on the ground, she meowed and brushed up against my daughter’s leg.  

We often think of forgiveness as something to practice in our personal lives. But it’s one of the most important actions that managers and leaders can take. Holding on to a mistake an employee made, or remaining upset over a decision you didn’t agree with, isn’t going to help you succeed. What will be is letting go and moving on to solving the next problem. That’s difficult to do in modern workplaces, where performance reviews can drive us to look for flaws, and technology can monitor our mistakes. Which is all the more reason to ask yourself: Would you rather stew in being right, or move on and try to reach an accord?  

Purr (the human equivalent of finding peace)  

In the last few hours before we put Paku down, I held her wrapped in an old, dusty blue pillowcase. I buried my face in her fur as she nuzzled her head into the crook of my elbow. She was in so much pain, something I felt guilty for not seeing the signs of earlier. And yet, through all that pain, she was still purring. A soft, low vibrating of her larynx communicated that she was finding some semblance of contentment.  

Perhaps in our careers, we can look to find the equivalent of purring—not through elevated titles or salaries, which are fleeting and can ironically lead to more discontent—but through a sense of fulfillment. When our contributions are meaningful and help others, when we have boundaries to protect ourselves from burnout, and when we don’t lose our sense of self in toxic environments that leave us waking up one day not recognizing who we’ve become.  

When the vet came in to administer the injection, I placed my fingers softly on her throat. I felt the purring continue until it didn’t. Even in her last moments, she found peace. May we all be able to try and reach a state of purring in our last moments in work, and in life.