Hi, I’m Ekaterina Pisano, and I never planned to become a cat expert. I definitely never planned to write a book about it. But here’s the thing about grief — sometimes it transforms into purpose, and that’s exactly what happened to me.
By day, I’m a digital marketing and web design professional living in Los Angeles with my family. By night (and weekends, and honestly most of my free time), I became an obsessive researcher on a mission to understand everything about cats — because that’s what happens when your world gets turned upside down by a loss you never saw coming.
My journey into the depths of feline care didn’t start in a classroom or veterinary office. It started with Misha, my majestic black Maine Coon who thought he was roughly the size of a small lion and deserved to be treated accordingly. This gorgeous, fluffy giant was my furry little shadow—well, “little” being extremely relative when you’re talking about a cat who could easily be mistaken for a small bobcat. He thought my lap was his personal throne (never mind that he barely fit), my keyboard was an excellent napping spot (productivity be damned), and that his elegant Maine Coon floof entitled him to premium treatment at all times. He was my everyday smile, my bad-day comfort blanket, and honestly, my favorite family member to hang out with (sorry to all my actual humans reading this—you know it’s true).
I thought I was doing everything right. Premium food specifically formulated for Maine Coons? Check. Regular vet visits and vaccinations? Absolutely. Grooming sessions to manage all that magnificent fur, endless playtime to burn off his surprisingly high energy, enough toys to stock a small pet store? You bet. I was that cat parent—the one who had more photos of their cat than of actual people on their phone, the one who researched the best supplements for his breed, the one who basically treated him like royalty. I thought I had this whole cat care thing figured out.
Spoiler alert: I didn’t. Not even close.
When Misha suddenly passed away at just 5 years old — practically a baby for a Maine Coon, a breed that typically lives 12-15 years — my entire world shattered into a million pieces. One day he was his normal, playful self — purring next to me on the couch, shamelessly begging for treats. The next day, he wouldn’t touch his food or water. For a Maine Coon who lived to eat, that was terrifying. I rushed him to the emergency vet immediately. They kept him overnight for observation.
Then came the call no pet parent ever wants to receive. 12 AM. The vet’s voice apologetic, professional, devastating: “I’m so sorry, his heart stopped.” They found liver failure and suspected toxic poisoning.
Wait. What? Toxic poisoning? In my home? The home I thought I’d made safe for him?
I couldn’t stop crying and for days. My family watched helplessly as I spiraled. The grief was crushing, but so was the confusion and guilt. The questions wouldn’t leave me alone, haunting me during sleepless nights.
Those questions haunted me. Sleep became impossible. Food lost all appeal. So I started digging — first out of pure grief and guilt, then out of a desperate, almost obsessive need to understand what went wrong. I dove headfirst into research about cat psychology, anatomy, and health. I read scientific studies until my eyes crossed (so. many. studies.). I joined cat owner groups and collected hundreds of stories. I cornered veterinarians with endless questions until they probably started hiding when they saw me coming.
And what I discovered absolutely floored me.
Despite having cats all my life — despite thinking I was a responsible, informed cat parent — I realized I knew maybe 5% of what I actually needed to know. Common household items I never thought twice about? Potentially deadly to cats. That “quirky” behavior I thought was cute? Actually a warning sign of something serious. The premium food I’d splurged on because I loved him? Missing key nutrients he desperately needed.
It was humbling. Eye-opening. And honestly, a little infuriating.
Why didn’t anyone tell me these things?
That’s when it hit me like a ton of bricks — I couldn’t possibly be the only one in this position. There had to be millions of cat parents out there, loving their pets fiercely, doing their absolute best, but missing crucial information that could literally save their cats’ lives.
That realization changed everything. I couldn’t bring Misha back, but maybe — just maybe — I could help prevent other cat parents from experiencing the same devastating loss. Maybe I could take everything I’d learned through my grief-fueled research marathon and turn it into something that actually helps.
So I wrote this book. Not as some distant expert lecturing from an ivory tower, but as a fellow cat parent who learned the hard way and wants to spare you the same heartbreak.
This is everything I wish someone had told me before it was too late. It’s the manual I desperately needed but couldn’t find anywhere. It’s practical, honest, and sometimes brutally real—because sugarcoating information doesn’t save cats’ lives. It’s filled with the kind of details that textbooks skip over but that make all the difference in real life.
Most importantly, it’s my way of making sure Misha’s story helps other cats live longer, healthier, happier lives. He deserved better than what I unknowingly gave him. Your cat deserves better too.
And you deserve to have all the information you need to give them that better life—without having to learn it the way I did.
If this book helps even one cat parent avoid the mistakes I made, then maybe Misha's short life will have rippled out into countless longer, healthier lives for cats everywhere. That's the legacy he deserves.
