We are a cat family. I’d love a dog, but for logistical reasons possibly related to the fact that I might be too lazy to walk a dog every day, we remain a cat family for now.
We originally had two cats, but when one of those died suddenly, we got two more kittens to keep the remaining cat company, as he was pitched into a deep depression after the loss of his life-long companion. Who said animals don’t mourn?
So, for two years now, we have had three cats who are dear companions to our family, beloved and doted on by children and adults alike.
They are generally homebodies but sometimes they give us a scare by disappearing for a few hours only to trot home after 10pm with a feline shrug that says, what’s the big deal?
But last week, our smallest cat, Sylvia, disappeared at lunchtime and 30 hours later had still not returned.
None of the cats has ever spent a night outdoors. I stayed up half the night in the hope that she might return.
I was so addled with exhaustion I could barely concentrate on my work the next day.
Where was she? I can hear the non-pet people of the world’s exasperated cries of ‘it’s just a cat!', but there is no accounting for the boundless love we can feel for our pets.
And it makes sense if you think about it.
Pets are never cross with us, they always have time for us, and they offer constant company when no one else is around.
In the quiet mornings, while my children are at school, Sylvia sits in my study by my feet while I work. Pets rarely do anything to annoy us and if they do it’s rarely deliberate.
Okay, so I will confess one of our cats has an annoying habit of batting glasses off the kitchen island just to see them smash. (He has that bad Johnny Cash I-shot-a-man-in-Reno-just-to-watch-him die energy). But generally, pets are positive presences in our lives.
I’ve been watching , the Apple adaptation of Bonnie Garmus’ bestselling novel.
Whether you like the show or not may come down to whether you can tolerate a dog’s thoughts as a voiceover or whether you already imagine your pet as having an inner monologue.
I fall into that second category, alas, which is why as the hours ticked by and our little cat remained missing I got more and more worried about her. In desperation, I called to my neighbour’s house. Had he seen a cat?
I expected nothing but the answer was yes, the previous night, in his house, he had stumbled upon a cat but the cat had scarpered and he hadn’t seen her since.
I went inside and called her and a familiar meow came back. With a little coaxing, she emerged from her hiding place.
Again, who said cats aren’t capable of love and trust? Okay, so they might eat your face if you die, but that’s neither here nor there.
The relief and joy were overwhelming, but the rollercoaster of fear and grief that happens when a pet disappears is almost unbearable.
At one point I bleakly recriminated with myself for refusing to acknowledge the nature of life, love and loss — everyone and everything must die. It’s irrational to expect anyone or anything to live forever.
I had been thinking about this anyway, even before the cat’s misadventure, because I’m at the age now where I’ve lost a parent and my friends are starting to lose their parents too.
We’re told it’s the natural order of things. We were lucky to have them for as long as we did, but having a coffee with a friend recently she pointed out, that even though her mother was elderly and even though she herself is now in her 50s, the loss of her mother has been the most devastating of her life.
How we dismiss grief is not just reserved for pets it seems.
We sometimes speak about grief after the loss of an elderly parent, or indeed miscarriage, and I’m sure there are plenty of other examples too, in a similarly brusque way.
It’s the natural order. It’s time to move on. Don’t dwell on it. Don’t talk about it. All things must pass. Accept it. Get on with your life.
My mother has been dead for three years now. She would have turned 72 this week.
I feel like I have come to terms with her loss — Alzheimer’s meant we lost her slowly and gradually — but sometimes, when a cat goes missing for example, I feel like grief is just a dormant companion ready to be re-awakened by fresh grief.
It’s something we carry with us. It’s painful but it’s unavoidable. The only way to avoid grief, is to avoid love.
But the memory of love, whether it is for a little pet or for the greatest relationships of our lives, is the only balm I know of for grief.
