We lost Tabitha this past week, and it was completely unexpected. Sure, she had been lethargic for the past month, a little. She hadn't been quite as excited about food. She's just getting older, I thought. I made an appointment with our vet, but felt a little silly doing so.
I noticed her grumpiness, and started fretting about our early-April appointment.
Could she actually be ill? I wondered. Suddenly, she began crying out in pain and vomiting. Panicked, we rushed her to the emergency vet in Indianapolis, where she died in my arms. The vet wasn't sure what the problem had been. Maybe fungal? Bacterial? A partial blockage?
Cats hide their pain, she said.
It's often hard to know when they're feeling bad, until it's too late.
The grief that followed has been one of the most painful experiences in my life. It's been only a year since we lost Bosewichte, but in that grief, I had Tabitha. Suddenly, my little companion was gone.
The little face that napped next to my computer for 12 years, who pushed into my arms multiple times throughout the day and during the night...vanished. That imperious and demanding little imp who would frustrate me with her fussiness and then charm me with her head butts and kneading paws...gone. The silence is immense.
I haven't slept through the night since we lost her. I either graze distractedly all day, or forget to eat altogether. Dazed, I have walked away from my work halfway through, completely forgetting that I hadn't finished.
I've lost entire days in a book, or to mindless television. I completely forgot about my seedlings on the front porch, broken to bits on a windy day. Dozing on the couch, I'd snap to wakefulness, sure that I'd just heard her meow. I tearfully cut up "her" cat hair-covered cushion, sealing it in a Ziplock freezer bag for safekeeping.
It felt a little strange...indulgent?...to be so distraught over "just a cat." Why was this grief so sharp, when I've been able to rally fairly quickly from other losses in my life? At my core, I'm a logical and practical person. Take some time, then get over it. Move on. Push it away and it will go away. But this time, it's not so easy. My brain tells me to get up, take a shower, do some work. Clean the house...work in the garden...work in the back barn. The intentionality is there, but I feel physically weak. My brain is foggy. My hands feel heavy. Much easier to nap or watch another mind-numbing episode of Project Runway.
Somewhat bothered and a little ashamed by this depth of feeling, I started reading entries in online pet loss groups. I was surprised - and comforted - to see that there were others who felt their losses just as much. People cried and grieved over dogs, cats, birds, and many other animal companions. Dogs who trotted cheerfully alongside on daily walks and cats who snuggled under covers at night, little friends who shared in the daily routines and dramas, unconditional lovers who comforted and understood. Many people were still grieving months or even years later, remembering their special bonds. Still sharing stories and encouragement to those whose grief was still raw.
Perusing these forums day after day, I started to meditate on the nature of grief. From that meditation grew a sense of wonder. How marvelous...how unexpected...how wonderful that these little creatures can have such a hold on our hearts. How mysterious is the love that grows there. How compelling that we can be brought so low by their loss...it's a testament to the depth and quality of our love for them. It is mysterious. It destroys us, but it gives us hope of redemption, too. Our love is so great that it cannot be extinguished by death. Their spirits are too potent and powerfully alive to be snuffed out by the weakening of their physical bodies. I am convinced, from my understanding of the character of God, that we will be together again. Death and redemption is a powerful part of our faith.
We're both suffering mightily, but we're already talking about expanding our household. The fact that we're willing to go through this terrible pain over and over again is a testament to transformative power they have over our lives and our hearts. We'll do it again, we'll hurt again, and we'll do it again. It's worth it.
Until we meet again, sweet girl!
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