When Athos died, I was crushed, gutted. Everything in me was just trying to brace for the full emotion – trying not to push it aside, so I could grieve.
Sometimes I could, sometimes, it was too much, so I did what I could to get through the day.
It was ages before I could think back to the day I lost him, although my brain would sometimes send me intrusive thoughts, flashbacks to that awful experience – the shriek he yelled out, how unwell he was, me calling the vet to let them know we were coming and that he was likely dying, the stressful ride to the vet that felt like it took forever, where he’d yell a number of times.
The vet took him and we went home hoping everything would be okay, but we knew it likely wasn’t. When we got the call to come in and say our goodbyes, because nothing was working, the suffering he was undergoing as we were just about to let him go – I knew he was not okay, that nothing could be done, that we had to let him go, and that I needed to emotionally get to the place where I could say goodbye as quickly as possible, because every moment that went on was another moment he suffered.
I used to wonder how I would feel about burying a pet. But when they euthanized him – the second the light went out in his eyes, they closed, and his face relaxed, at that moment, I couldn’t imagine taking him. Because truly, it wasn’t him – he was not there anymore. And that’s all I could feel. My little one, my precious little Athos, he was not in the body that once held his soul. So to me, it was not relevant.
We had him cremated and I thought I would want to scatter some of his ashes outdoors. But they came in a little box, sealed in plastic, and I didn’t have the heart to do it. I wanted them to stay there for myself. So they stayed.
The one thing I wish I’d kept more of – the one thing I really wanted – were bits of his fur. I wish I’d saved some of it when we’d shaved him, but remembering I’d recently done so, and put the fur into a nearly empty dust bin a week or two back, I feel strange to say, but I fished it out. And touching that fir for the first time in maybe a week, I was incredibly overwhelmed.
I now keep some of Bjorn’s fur from when we shaved him. And keep some of Avery’s fur when I brush him with the Furminator. I’ll put them in lovely jars, and keep them as keepsakes, there’s nothing more that I want.
I stressed for weeks after he died that I would forget him. Forget parts of him. Little things I loved, his voice, the way he would act. I knew I wouldn’t, as I’d lost my grandmother a year back, and knew those memories were forged into you so deep they can’t be shaken out, but I worried anyway.
I had no need to worry. The reminders of him still happen daily, the memories of his voice, the way he’d be there always, his favorite spots in the house, these have faded, but I don’t think they will ever disappear.
I have always wanted him since he left. Will always want him. I don’t think a day will go by that I don’t think about him – not for a long time at least. I will always wish I had more time – forever, really, as no time is enough. I realized how much I loved and wanted him so badly when he was here, but I could never have prepared for him leaving, because he meant so much.
I have finally gotten to the place – where I wanted to be mentally – where I can feel more gratitude at having had him, having known him, having him, than I feel grief and misery over his loss. It’s not always. Sometimes the grief overwhelms me more than the gratitude, but often I do feel very, very grateful instead of merely the pain of having to part ways.
The house still feels quiet, feels lonely without him. But it is not so sad. Acceptance of the new normal has finally washed over this place, even with the new normal in the behaviour of the two remaining cats, one who sorely missed him and had low spirits for ages, the other who I don’t believe will ever have quite a lovely bond with any other cat.
But at least he was here. At least we had him. At least we had the time with him that we did. And at least I could give him a happy life, a good home, until his very last day.
Know what you are going through, lost my cat this past February 13 and I like you I am crushed and gutted but still can’t stand the meow of another cat without thinking about my cat Daisy Mae
Thank you for sharing this – and yes I completely understand how you feel, it’s so devastating to lose them. They are so precious.