Farewell, Oreo: the Last Chapter of a Tuxedoed Life

by Felix Wong | 25 Jun 2025

Oreo came into my life not through some grand plan, but almost by chance. In January 2010, I took him and his sister Tiger in for a friend who was going through some life changes. The idea was temporary—basically pet-sitting for four months. But after a year of watching Oreo assert his alpha male charm, playfully roughhouse with Tiger, and tug on my heartstrings with every swish of his tail, I knew: these cats weren’t going anywhere. They were home.

Oreo was a tuxedo cat, dressed always in his finest, ready for whatever mischief or tenderness the day had to offer. He had this hilarious and strangely elegant routine at mealtime. He and Tiger would begin with their own bowls, then—like clockwork—Oreo would orchestrate a switcharoo. He’d peer over at Tiger’s food, initiate the move, and eat from her bowl as if the contents were somehow superior. It was an oddly endearing show of feline psychology and authority.

His relationship with water was another character quirk. He’d paw and splash at it before drinking, as if testing its quality or depth. Fifteen years into knowing him, I finally asked Microsoft Copilot about this behavior and learned it’s how cats try to see the water better by making it ripple. All along, he wasn’t just being silly—he was showing me his quiet wisdom.

For the first four months we lived together in 2010, I tried to keep the bedroom off-limits. One room without fur, I thought. Oreo disagreed. Every morning—like clockwork at 4:00 a.m.—he’d meow at the door with impressive persistence. After four months of interrupted sleep, I gave in. From then on, he and Tiger slept in my bedroom, and that simple act became one of our most comforting rituals.

Oreo aged like a classic car—mostly smooth sailing, just one major tune-up when he had a teeth cleaning at seven. Even as the years wore on, he kept moving with spry energy, only slowing slightly with time.

In February 2022, he flew with me to move to Spain, enduring flights with quiet dignity and—astoundingly—without using the bathroom for a heroic amount of time. He even earned a few moments of celebrity, appearing on travel articles as the face of pet air travel.

Once in Spain, Oreo adjusted well. He took to the local clay-type kitty litter without fuss and indulged in the new food, all with the quiet approval of a creature who knows how to roll with change. He even bravely refused to let the Roomba robot vacuum terrorize him.

At Andrea’s mother’s house—“la selva” or “the jungle” (for the number of plants there) as we lovingly called it—he met other cats like Isidro and Gris. Isidro was hilarious while Gris was affectionate.

Photo: Marisa

Oreo? He was rather firm in his boundaries with other furry creatures despite being very social with humans. When Gris tried to get close, Oreo would deliver a swift “slap slap” with his paw. A gentleman, but never afraid to draw a line.

We were always looking for ways to keep Oreo engaged, and one of my more whimsical attempts was ordering him a floppy fish toy from Amazon. It flopped, it wiggled—it looked like it might be a hit. But Oreo, ever dignified, regarded it with more curiosity than enthusiasm. He’d give it a nudge, maybe a swipe, and then put it in a headlock like a WWF wrestler. The real entertainment turned out to be watching him interact with the fish—his expressions, his calculated ambivalence—far funnier to us than the toy was exciting for him. In the end, we were the ones entertained. Typical Oreo: effortlessly stealing the spotlight.

The last 1.5 years weren’t without hiccups—gastritis in January 2024 and an eye infection in December 2024—but even for the latter, his blood tests came back perfect. He was strong. Resilient. Still the Oreo we knew.

But in late May 2025, everything changed. His weight dropped dramatically, and his walk grew unsteady. A vet visit revealed his creatinine levels were twelve times the norm: advanced kidney disease. He declined rapidly. The vet had Andrea, who’s an emergency room doctor for humans, inject medication at home—a first for her with a pet. Andrea also bought socks to help him walk better on hardwood. It worked for a while, but eventually, his legs couldn’t keep up with his spirit.

When I returned to Spain, Oreo could no longer leap onto the bed. He struggled even to jump onto the lower bedroom chair, pawing his way up with fierce determination, refusing to give up his spot. I spent nearly every hour with him, especially those last 72. We had our final TV night together—me, Andrea, and Oreo. Andrea knew it was goodbye. She hugged him on the couch while shedding some tears, whispering love as we watched our show. It felt like the closing credits to an era.

The next morning before her 24-hour shift, she touched Oreo gently as he lay to the left of me. “Se murió” (“he died”), she said softly. Immediately, Oreo lifted his head in comical protest, as if to say, “What? I’m dead?” But his strength was waning.

That day, I stayed beside him during literally every moment except for an abbreviated run outside during the evening. He drank water but refused to eat—even his favorite Churra snack—except once at 2:00 p.m. Occasionally, I placed him in his litter box, hoping instinct would kick in, like the previous night, the last time he would poop in days. It didn’t.

I read the book Me Before You by Jojo Moyes while sitting next to him, the story feeling fitting. Days before, we’d watched the second half of the film adaptation in Spanish on TV together. The tale of taking care someone who had lost his facilities, letting go, of love and loss and choice—it felt parallel to what we were experiencing, though with the mercy of not having to make that final choice.

Oreo and I also watched the Multisport World Championships that were happening on Triathlon TV instead of just hundreds of meters outside in Pontevedra, as I didn’t want to leave my buddy’s side. We could watch the sporting events inside together.

Later that evening, Oreo spoke for the final time:

Shortly afterwards, he tried walking for the last time—without his socks. It was so sad that Andrea asked me via text to not to let him walk again, lest he hurt himself.

That night, I placed Oreo beside me on the bed, laying down towels just in case of a potty accident. I kept my hand on him most of the night, stroking him, checking his heartbeat. Twice he tried to wander, but never could go farther than half a meter. Both times I guided him back.

In the early morning, he stretched and coughed. I stroked him again. Then we went back to sleep.

Roughly twenty minutes later, a message from Andrea buzzed on my watch, waking me. She was at the end of her 24-hour shift, and asking about Oreo. I checked him carefully for several minutes before replying. His heartbeat was gone.

There was actually some relief in his peaceful passing. No vet visit and having to make the decision as to put him to sleep or not. Just passing naturally while sleeping beside me, in the comfort of his own home, the bed he slept on everyday.

I found a nice box for him and had it ready before Andrea returned home. Together, we drove him to Andrea’s mom’s, where he’d be buried near Pon Pon and Petra—her beloved companions who passed before Oreo could ever meet them. He’s also on the grounds where Isidro, his funny amigo, still roams around, causing all sorts of mischief.

The timing of Oreo’s passing was uncanny. Whereas Tiger had passed away six days before I took my parents to a trip to Spain in 2017, Oreo passed six days after I returned to Spain from the States. He also passed a day before my birthday, five before what would’ve been his 17th. It was as if to say, “I’ll miss mine so that I don’t ruin yours.”

Oreo was fit, healthy, and lived longer than Tiger by eight years. Like my mom, he lived a good life that was longer than average. But like for my mom, we imagined he would live even longer, based on his fitness and strength.

Now, the house feels quieter. Empty corners where his meows used to echo. We miss his greetings, his seat-stealing stunts at meals, him “trapping” us with the weight of him pinning us down on our laps. The way he would sleep right between us in bed—or pressed close to me, just a warm tuxedo lump by my hip.

I miss the nose boops. I miss dancing with him.

Even Andrea wishes she hadn’t been annoyed whenever he meowed loudly at 2:00 a.m., as he often was prone to do. That sound? That was him. Never mind that the neighbors thought it was a crying baby. That was our boy and our life with him.

And now, it’s a story we’ll always carry. One of water splashes, flight photos, stolen chairs and deep companionship.

Oreo, thank you. For every moment.

Photo: Marisa

More Videos

There are a few more videos of Oreo (and Tiger) on my YouTube channel. Rest in peace, my furry friends.

Photo: Andrea

Photo: Andrea

Photo: Andrea

Photo: Andrea

Photo: Andrea