OPINION: Rachel Brougham — The joy, the grief, the pain: What I now understand about losing a pet
Ten years ago, I brought home a 5-week old kitten that was left to die in a wood pile in Harbor Springs. She was so tiny, so squeaky, so fragile that the vet wasn’t sure she’d make it.
That kitten would fall asleep in her food bowl, pounce on our older cat with no fear and steal clementines from the fruit bowl to stash in her special spot.
She survived and grew — and grew and grew. Finally topping off at a whopping 14 pounds, Weezie (her real name was Liesl but we never called her that) went from a naughty, annoying kitten to the most loving, tolerant and stubborn cat I’ve ever met.
Nearly 10 years after I brought home that grey ball of fuzz, Weezie died last week after a sudden diagnosis of cancer. In her final hours, her stubborn nature prompted her to fight the disease tooth and nail, endangering herself and us. The right thing to do was put her down.
No matter how many pets you’ve had, no matter how much loss you’ve experienced, there’s nothing you can do to prepare yourself for that moment you must say goodbye.
I’ve lost three pets in the last five years. If I could go back and remind myself of the pain that comes with losing a pet, I would tell myself the following five things.
1) Guilt comes and goes. In Weezie’s last hours, she had several seizures. She lost control of her legs. She bit her tongue and was bleeding. She drooled uncontrollably and vomited. And no matter how much I blamed myself for what she had to endure those last few hours in the middle of the night, no matter how much the vet reassured me I did everything I could, the guilt of those last hours will haunt me for a long time. I also feel guilt over the feeling of relief of no longer having to deal with a cat who racked up thousands of dollars in vet bills in her last days, and destroyed a new living room rug.
2) People mean well, but don’t always help. When you tell people you just lost your pet, they’ll tell you stories about how they can’t fathom losing their living pet, which just reminds you that yours is dead. Or they’ll tell you a horrible story about how their beloved pet died, which is also just a reminder that yours is dead. I realize people are just trying to comfort you and sympathize, but every word spoken just reminds you that you no longer have your pet.
3) The little things hurt. A few hours after Weezie died, I stepped out of the shower and opened the bathroom door a crack like I always do. Weezie would always be there, waiting to jump in the tub and lick up drips of water. She would talk to me as I put lotion on and combed my hair. I opened the door and she wasn’t there. That afternoon she wasn’t sleeping in her regular spot. Her fur doesn’t tumble across the hardwood floors anymore. The silence of her meow is deafening.
4) It gets better, then it gets worse again. Over the last few days, I’ve gotten up, gone for a run, went to work, cooked meals and spent time with friends. I smile and can even muster a laugh. But then the pain returns when I see something or hear something or smell something that makes me think of her. But there’s a reason it hurts: despite her stubbornness, I loved that cat and she loved me back. I gave that abandoned kitten a home and our lives both blossomed.
5) The loss of something or someone that gave you joy is why we feel pain. If that cat didn’t bring me so much damn joy, I wouldn’t be crying as I write this. However, I know from my experiences over the last five years and the three pets I’ve now lost that someday that joy will return. One day I’ll again bring a pet home and start this process all over. And I’ll feel joy and grief and pain. And that’s perfectly fine by me.
Rachel Brougham is the former assistant editor of the Petoskey News-Review. You can email her at racheldbrougham@gmail.com or follow her on Twitter @RachelBrougham and Instagram @rachbrougham.