Saying Goodbye to My Banjo

We lost Banjo this past weekend. He was only fourteen months old.


He came to us on my birthday, in September. A heartbreakingly skinny jumble of skin and bone and dirty fur that weighed barely a pound despite being six months old, he’d been born feral with cerebellar hypoplasia, which made it hard for him to walk or even stand for long without falling over. I didn’t want to take on such a huge responsibility, didn’t want any more cats. But I couldn’t leave him and his sister to die miserable deaths, so we trapped them and brought them home.

We almost lost them that first week when they had an inexplicable, nearly fatal reaction to their vaccinations. After bottle-feeding them kitten formula around the clock for weeks, we finally had to acknowledge that as bad as they had been before, they were now worse. Scout eventually was able to feed herself and drink unaided (although she’s since lost that ability…), but Banjo never could manage it again. So I hand fed him, three times a day, month after month. The bond we formed was fierce. His coordination might be lousy, but there was never anything wrong with his mind or his heart or his soul. He was an amazing little guy.


Through it all he remained as alert, intensely aware, happy-go-lucky, and loving as ever. He brought me endless joy and laughter and love, and he taught me some much needed lessons about patience, and perseverance, and acceptance. Although I didn’t realize it at the time, I was blessed the day Banjo came into my life. And I am devastated now that he has gone out of it.


Farewell, my little friend. You are badly missed.