When I called the vet’s office after my work shift in 1985, I hadn’t expected heartache.
“I’m sorry,” the vet’s receptionist said, “but Newt didn’t wake up after the operation.”
Newt had been my pet for over fourteen years. Just a cat.
I was twenty-nine, and though I’d known Newt wouldn’t live forever, I hadn’t expected him to die like this. The operation was supposed to have been routine. But given Newt’s age, he already had one paw in the grave.
Sharing pet loss with those immediately affected
I was living with my parents at the time, and when I got home, I still felt numb. As I served Mom and Dad supper, I told them about Newt. They received the news in hushed solemnity.
Mom told me if I needed to talk, she was available. Dad said the same. But I didn’t need to talk.
Instead, I went to my bedroom, shut the door, and wept.
Dealing with the lack of a burial place
The next day, I went to the vet. Mom and Dad’s trailer home set on rented land, so I already knew I wouldn’t be able to bury Newt.
I asked the vet’s receptionist what would happen to his body, and she said they would take care of it. I didn’t press for details on what “taking care of it” meant.
I had failed my friend on a deep level.
Numbly, I got rid of his litter box, water bowl, and food dish. I felt as though I was erasing him from the family. But memories haunted me.
Drowning in the memories
Newt had craved poultry the way most cats lusted after catnip. His eyes widened into hubcaps when Mom baked turkey. He’d become so manic he’d jump on the table, forcing Mom to scat him off. While we ate, we even had to put him outside, where he’d yowl beside the door.
But when we let him in, I always gave him his share of turkey.
Like many cats of his generation, Newt was a hardworking TV warmer. Occasionally, he’d drop his tail in front of the screen. Vocal commands for him to move his tail proved fruitless, so you’d have to get up to scoot his tail aside.
He remained unconcerned throughout. You could imagine him thinking, “Humans—can’t live with them, can’t live without them.”
One time I was reading a newspaper, and Newt poked his head beneath the bottom of the page, then scrunched the newspaper out of the way as he maneuvered onto my chest. I couldn’t help but laugh.
Then there were the close calls. One night, Newt couldn’t move his legs to hop on the living room couch. Mom gasped, wishing she could help him. Dad said Newt was scared and might have had a stroke.
I stayed beside him, petting him and praying as he mournfully meowed every few seconds. Eventually, he struggled onto the couch, and by the next day, he had regained control of his legs.
Of course, you know about the nine lives cats allegedly enjoy. You probably also know that’s a croc.
Pondering your cat’s personhood
Newt spent his last moments held captive in the “House of Pain,” his least favorite environment. Strange humans in white coats restrained him on a cold steel table and stuck him with needles. What were his last thoughts before the anesthesia closed his eyes? Did he wonder why his human had abandoned him?
In a just world, why couldn’t he have died at home? Home was his den, a welcoming environment surrounded by his trusted humans. He could have died in peace. But at the vet, he had likely died in fear.
Hey, I was thinking about Newt like he was a person, wasn’t I? I decided I was going to keep such thoughts to myself. My reaction had to be overkill. Right?
Coming to terms with the someone you have lost
Over the decades, Newt has stayed on my mind. In fact, I think about him daily, the same way I think about my now deceased Mom and Dad daily. Why?
Veterinarian Dr. Sarah Hoggan, in a Ted Talk about pet grief, answered my question: “You didn’t lose a thing—you lost a someone.”
When I remember Newt going psycho over turkey, or bopping a Christmas ornament, or refusing to budge from a doorway, I realize he had indeed been a someone, a beloved member of the family.
Visiting the inner chamber
I still feel guilty over not having had a place to bury Newt. But I think he’d forgive me. After all, I took him to the House of Pain frequently, and when we got home, he didn’t hold a grudge but instead reverted to his old good-natured self.
Besides, there is a place he resides—the graveside in my heart. There, I visit him often.
He may have been just a cat. But that was more than enough.
Photo credits: Cat in chair (Kari Shea on Unsplash). Cat in silhouette (Gijs Coolen on Unsplash).
Touching!
Makes me remember the cats and dogs in our family over the years.
Thank you.
So many pets have passed and each one has taken a piece of my heart with it😔
Your care for animals has been shown in the many four-footed fur-folk whom you’ve offered a welcoming home and a loving heart. When they pass, I know it hurts. As has been said, to love deeply means to grieve deeply.
Saw that cat image and had to come read this well thought and felt blog. Here’s maybe an experiential nugget of my own regarding the loss of a pet that may be beneficial – especially so a cat. I’ve had many cats in my youth, but most recently in the last twenty plus years, a had a trio of them that all lived until past 15. All of them passed away at home when I was there with them, but for two those cats, when they passed, one seemed to wait until until I fell asleep for an hour so late in the night, and another seemed to specifically wait until I left the room for just a few minutes. I’ve always heard that both dogs and cats tend to “go somewhere to be alone” when they know it is time to go, so while I’m sure they find their keeper’s presence comforting, something else substantial and quite solitary for that animal may be going on there. Thanks for sharing.
I too have heard that dogs and cats prefer to be alone when they pass. As you suggest, that solitude in the face of death seems to fulfill a need for them.
Perhaps in the past, it could be that dying animals sought isolation to protect themselves from predators. Instinctually, perhaps that is still going on. But as you imply, there seems to be something more than instinct that drives most cats to seek isolation in their final moments.
Over the 34 years that my wife Crystal and I have been married we have enjoyed the company of about 12 dogs who lived with us permanently three of them have passed on and we have currently 9 that are with us. I think of those who left us often and sometimes daily. I know being a person of faith, I have encountered some who will say “just a dog” but I disagree. All created creatures have value to their Creator and are given for His pleasure and for our enjoyment. The Bible says in Proverbs 12: 10 that a righteous man regarded the life of his beast. This is because that beast has value in the eyes of the Creator. Luke 12: 6 tells us that in human terms five sparrows are sold for a certain a rate of Money but that not one of them is forgotten before God. I Imagine that if God remembers a sparrow, He also remembers my pet friends that have passed on. Now, I am not sure what exactly it means to be remembered of God but this same word is used in reference to my works done in faith (Hebrews 6: 10). So, it is possible that those who say we will not see our pet friends again are mistaken. Be blessed brother.
Javier, thank you for your response, and I apologize that I am just responding.
I agree that canines are not “just dogs,” nor felines “just cats.” As you note, God values animals, and perhaps we may see our pet friends again.