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Cognitive biases #4: Loss aversion
Why it’s actually worse to have loved and lost—and why that makes for worse decisions
O n June 3, 2024, I lost one of the most steadfast presences in my life. Max the cat was 20 years old, and I loved him deeply. For good reason. He’d outlasted my marriage, made homes with me in many different cities, walked with me through a few different jobs.
I knew he wasn’t, but he kinda seemed immortal.
Until he didn’t.
A few years ago, he’d been trained him to jump over my arm to get his treats every morning. And then one day, in August of 2023, he stopped jumping. He’d come up to my arm, bounce himself a little bit, and then give up.
Over the next few weeks, he needed my arm to get closer and closer to the floor before he’d eventually just step over it. The vet diagnosed Max with a spinal tumor and gave him a few weeks to live.
He defied the odds, that glorious little cat, and gave me almost an entire extra year with him.
Since his diagnosis, my only prayer had been that I would get to be with him when the inevitable happened. I travel a lot for work, so that wasn’t a guarantee.
But, early in the morning of June 2, 2024, my partner called me while I was in Europe on a work trip. She said he’d gotten acutely worse, and she was taking him to the emergency vet.
When she called back a few hours later, it was to tell me that the vet had recommended euthanasia.
I did what I thought only happened in movies: walked up to the ticket desk at the airport and bought a same-day ticket across the Atlantic.
We never had to euthanize Max. Twenty-four hours after I got home, he died in my arms.
It’s been months, and I’m still crying in a coffee shop as I write this. Losing Max is one of the hardest things I’ve ever faced.
We hate loss
The day Max died, a friend of mine—someone who cares deeply for me, despite how callous this next line might sound—said, “This is why I never want pets. Getting a pet always means you’re automatically signing up for grief.”
