I spent half an hour this morning, before heading down to the station, digging a grave in the rain. My gorgeous Sophie had been going rapidly downhill since we took her to the vet last week for being generally under the weather – weight loss, enlarged spleen, shadow on the ultrasound. We are just so busy that, heartbreaking as it was to have to assume she wasn’t going to make it, the grave had to be ready. Last night she was weak but still purring, and looking out over the edge of the car basket to check we were still there. This morning she was noticeably weaker and less responsive. This evening when we got home from work she still purred when we cuddled her, but was obviously miserable and in pain, and we knew the time had come for the trip to the vet. She cried at being put into the cat basket and taken outside. She purred and nuzzled me at the end. Her heart kept beating for so long.
First world problems. The world is full of death and misery, even more than usual, and I’m crying over a cat, who led a pampered life of regular meals and warmth and someone to throw the stuffed mouse so she could play fetch. But, not having children, this is how I understand what it feels like to have a creature wholly dependent on you, adoring and affectionate and also entirely capable of manipulation to get what she wants; the terror of thinking of something happening to her, the consuming grief when something does. I don’t care about the cats as an alternative to caring about people, it’s how I learn and re-learn how to care about people, to feel what it’s like to lose a child. My heart feels raw and exposed.
Sophie didn’t actually have the easiest life. As kittens, both she and her brother had giardiasis – constant dribbling from her bottom, unable to hold down food, six weeks’ of antibiotics leaving their digestive systems a wreck, and of course looking up the infliction on the Internet tells you an awful lot about its effect on children, especially if not properly treated. Whereas Hans has tended to be cranky and demanding, and to express his displeasure and discomfort by waking everyone up in the middle of the night, Sophie was quiet and stoical. She was calm and patient and affectionate to all the others – while taking no nonsense from any of them. She would have had beautiful kittens, if we’d been able to cope, and I think would have been a wonderful mother. She should have been a matriarch, dispensing discipline, sage advice and hearty stews. She should have lived so much longer. And so should so many other people.
I buried her, by torchlight, next to the greenhouse where we grow sweet peas – no time tomorrow morning so it had to be done. And having got through today’s class not knowing if I’d said my last goodbye, now I have to get through tomorrow’s knowing that I have.
sorry for your loss