Lil Bubbies: A Story About Trust, Loss, and What We Owe Our Animals

Editor’s Note / Foreword:

This article shares the personal story of Lil Bubbies, a cat beloved by our Operations Coordinator. It is written as a reflection, with the intention of helping educate pet owners about the importance of asking questions and speaking up when something doesn’t feel right — especially when caring for pets since they cannot advocate for themselves. While this piece is rooted in personal experience, its purpose is education and awareness.

This article discusses the illness and loss of a pet. Readers who have recently experienced a loss of a pet may wish to read with care.

---

Lil Bubbies was never meant to be his forever name.

It started as a placeholder — something temporary I planned to change once something better came along. But the name stayed. And eventually, so did the understanding that it fit him just fine.

He was a big cat. Not overweight — strong. Solid. The kind of cat you felt when he jumped onto your chest.

When he began to lose weight, it didn’t register immediately as something serious. At first, I blamed food changes. Then a tooth that looked inflamed. Reasonable explanations, one after another.

What I didn’t recognize right away was that he wasn’t just losing weight. He was losing muscle.

It happened slowly enough to be deceptive. Slowly enough that by the time I understood something was truly wrong, I already felt behind.

So I took him in.

A Diagnosis Without A Plan

On December 5, 2025, Lil Bubbies had his first appointment. Bloodwork and a urinalysis were ordered. Communication was disjointed from the beginning — misunderstandings, assumptions, gaps — but I trusted that clarity would come with the results.

It didn’t.

On December 9, I was told Lil Bubbies had diabetes.

The explanation was brief and fragmented. Serious, but also presented as manageable without much concern. When I asked for written information, I was sent links and told to follow up once I decided how I wanted to proceed.

There was no clear plan. No step-by-step guidance. No discussion of risk.

I am someone who needs structure and direction. I needed someone to tell me what to do.

Instead, I was left to piece it together myself.

Fear and Information Without Context

What followed was a week of intense fear.

I searched everywhere — forums, medical articles, support groups — trying to understand what this diagnosis meant for Lil Bubbies and whether I could realistically manage it alongside my own disabilities. Much of what I found painted a frightening picture: rigid schedules, constant monitoring, little room for error.

I worried that I wouldn’t be able to keep him safe.

Those thoughts were not born of a lack of love. They came from fear — and from not having the information I needed when I needed it.

No one should have to reach that place alone.

Treatment Without Understanding

We were prescribed insulin and given options, described as essentially equivalent.

They were not.

Lil Bubbies was started on a slow-acting insulin, Lantus, at a dose of two units every twelve hours. There was no discussion of starting low. No explanation of how the dose was determined. Blood glucose testing at home was mentioned but framed as optional, not essential.

We were also told to change his diet.

Based on widely accepted guidance in feline diabetes communities, I switched him to a low-carbohydrate wet food. Because we free-feed dry food in our household, this change alone significantly reduced his intake of kibble.

What I was never told — what no one explained — was that diet changes alone can dramatically lower blood glucose levels. By the time insulin was introduced, his numbers were likely already lower than they had been at diagnosis.

I didn’t know that. I wasn’t warned.

The Emergency

Lil Bubbies received his first insulin injection on the evening of December 17.

His second injection was given early the next morning.

Later that afternoon, I found him in hypoglycemic shock.

I rubbed honey on his gums for over an hour while waiting for my boyfriend to get home, needing his help to get Bubbies to the clinic. By the time we arrived, his blood sugar was already dangerously low. There were delays. Miscommunications. Time passed while his condition worsened.

When we were finally able to leave and reach an emergency hospital, his blood sugar had dropped to 20.

Where He Was Finally Treated with Care

The emergency team was calm, clear, and compassionate.

They explained what was happening: an insulin overdose caused by a slow-acting insulin creating a depot in his system. Each time his glucose was raised, it would crash again as the insulin continued to release.

They stabilized him. He purred. He ate. He asked for attention. There was no indication that we wouldn’t be taking him home the next day.

We left him there overnight — safe, comfortable, and cared for.

So we left him there overnight — not abandoned, not scared — but safe, loved, and surrounded by people who believed they could help him.

At 3 a.m. on December 19, my phone rang.

The insulin was still overwhelming his system. He would need days of continuous intensive care to survive. The cost was already astronomical. And even if we could afford it, he was exhausted. Worn down by the constant crashing.

The official cause of death was insulin overdose.

The Guilt That Lingers

My hands gave him that insulin.

I know — rationally — that I followed professional instructions. That I asked questions. That I trusted people who were supposed to know better.

But guilt is not rational.

I still think about how I helped him be born — how he got stuck during delivery and I had to pull him into the world. How he came out so dark he felt unreal, like a little void my eyes couldn’t quite understand.

I kept him when I rehomed the rest of the litter because he felt special. I was his whole world.

And I can’t stop wondering if, in those last hours, he thought I left him.

Who Lil Bubbies Was

Lil Bubbies was affectionate and quietly demanding of love. If you walked past without petting him, he would hook your arm gently with his claws until you stopped. He would stand on his back legs to wrap himself around you, pressing his face into your hand.

He was deeply bonded his half-sister, Ozzie. They were inseparable. She hasn’t been the same since he died.

When another cat, Neo, passed away, Lil Bubbies became the only one who was kind to my Mr. Parrot. Now Parrot is alone too.

Animals grieve too — often in subtle ways we only recognize after loss.

A Quiet Legacy

I wish I had been given steps instead of links.

I wish insulin had been explained as the powerful medication it is.

I wish someone had told me to test his blood sugar before giving the first dose.

I wish someone had slowed down.

Diabetes in cats is not supposed to be a death sentence. With careful management, most cats live full lives. Some even go into remission.

Lil Bubbies should have been one of them.

I’m sharing this not to assign blame, but to give his life meaning beyond loss. To remind pet parents that asking questions is not being difficult. That clarity matters. That advocacy is not optional — it is part of loving an animal.

Lil Bubbies was loved. Completely.

And if telling his story helps even one person ask one more question, slow one decision, or seek clearer guidance — then his life still reaches forward.

In the quiet spaces he left behind, that love is still here — reaching up, wrapping its paws around my arm, asking not to be forgotten.

I am still struggling with the guilt.

But I am also learning how to carry his story forward — softly, honestly — so maybe another cat gets the chance he didn’t. That is the legacy I choose for my Lil' Bubbies.