Finding “Normal” After The Unexpected Loss of a Pet
My cat, George, was euthanized in 2016 after developing some strange symptoms, essentially overnight. He was still eating, sleeping, purring and mostly being his usual self, but he was taking very large, rapid breaths and twice he did a strange, hacking cough.
At first, I waited. I hoped it would just go away, that the problem would solve itself.
I got George as a sort of consolation gift when I was around 16 years old. My parents had gone through a messy divorce and my mom, sister and I were living in less-than-ideal circumstances. I was furious and heartbroken over it. I told my mom I wanted a cat and she was happy to oblige if it would help me calm down and feel better.
We went to the HBSPCA and my mom and I spent over an hour looking at cats. I knew I wanted an underdog. I didn’t want a cute kitten, I wanted someone broken and old. Someone no one else would want. After picking up cat after cat, and not feeling the connection I was looking for, finally, I picked up George. He was only about 11 months old, certainly not the old and broken cat I wanted to save. But he purred when I held him and rubbed his cheeks against my shoulder. He had chosen me as his person, and I chose him as my cat.
After George’s symptoms started, I went to work the next day. Working part-time I was only gone a few hours. I had my boyfriend send me photo and video updates throughout the day. George seemed mostly normal: he was purring and waiting for his supervised backyard time — but he was still taking those huge breaths.
His symptoms hadn’t stopped by that evening, and we took him to an emergency 24hr veterinarian. He was whisked away very quickly — the first indicator that this was more serious than I thought. After what seemed like forever, a veterinarian called me into the room and gave me the bad news. George had tumors and water on his lungs. He might have congestive heart failure. They could try some treatments overnight and update me in the morning, but if I chose to, they would euthanize that evening.
Two days earlier he was fine, everything was fine. Now a veterinarian was telling me my boy, my baby bear was dying. I couldn’t believe him, I couldn’t believe this was possible. He was 11 years old, he was the healthy one out of my two cats! I never thought in a million years he would be the first to go. I was completely unprepared.
I told the vet to do the treatments overnight, there was no way I was euthanizing my boy without trying what I could. The next day I was told the prognosis was poor. I could bring George home, but he could essentially relapse and pass away at any time in the next year or so. Or I could choose to euthanize my boy.
I was desperate for someone to make the decision for me. I wanted my cat to come home with me, but knew I couldn’t live like that, never knowing what moments would be our last, when I went to work if I would come home to a corpse. He was my cat, so the decision was mine. The most difficult decision I had ever made. The vet reassured me that I did everything I could, that I was being a good cat mom.
My family joined me and my boyfriend in a separate room, one reserved for those saying goodbye to their pets, and George was brought in. The veterinary assistant told me he was purring in his cage. He hopped out of her arms and started strutting around the room. My boy. He lay on the counter and purred as I pet him. The assistant told us we could have as much time as we needed — hours if we wanted. I cried and held my boy, I told him I loved him and thanked him for being my baby. The assistant came back in, asked if I needed more time. Of course I did, I needed more hours, days and years. I told her I would never be ready, so they could come in now. I held him while they did the injections. My boy passed away in my arms and we buried him in the sun in the backyard. I cried, held my other cat a little tighter and told myself George was okay.
My remaining cat got sick — really sick, the next month. I thought she was going to die too, that they would both be gone within a month of each other. I oscillated between hyper-vigilance and praying she would get better, and absolute hopelessness. After a month of expensive vet bills and procedures, she got better and has stayed healthy ever since.
I was devastated about George but surprised myself with how well I handled the next few weeks. I knew that George was okay. When George was still alive, I would break into tears sometimes just thinking of the possibility of losing him. But now that he was actually gone, I felt okay. He was gone, but he didn’t know it. I was the one left here missing him, he was fine.
Some time passed, a few more weeks.
And then, I starting developing some strange symptoms, almost overnight. I cried so hard I could barely breathe through it. I felt like everything in my life except for my remaining cat was meaningless and empty. I couldn’t remember being happy. I couldn’t handle losing George any longer — I missed my cat so much.
How was I supposed to deal with this? I felt so full of panic every time I thought “George died.” Oh god, how could this happen? How could things have gone so terribly wrong? I couldn’t stop thinking of him. George died and the world didn’t end, but I wished it had for me.
I didn’t know what this was, what to call it. Was this normal? Did everyone who lost a pet unexpectedly go through this?
At first, I waited. I hoped it would just go away, the problem would solve itself.
It didn’t just go away, and I don’t think this was normal. I needed to do for myself what I had done for George when he got sick — I asked for help. I started therapy, and over time I slowly started feeling normal again.
The four-year anniversary of George’s passing was this month. I still miss my cat, but I don’t feel broken anymore. I watched a video and heard him purring this month for the first time in years. I smiled (and cried), and mostly I was just happy to watch a video of him being happy. Hearing his purr reminded me of so many other purrs of his I got to hear.
I can’t do anything to bring him back, but that’s okay. I’m so grateful for the time we had together. He came to me in a formative time in my life and shook me out of my anger. He was a wild cat — barging into every room like he was ready to rob a bank. He leaped off of railings and woke me up with headbutts and purrs. He climbed all the furniture and groomed his cat-sister excessively. He leaped onto board games and sat on any in-progress projects. He had the silkiest fur I’ve ever felt, and the pinkest little nose. He did the cutest toe stretches and sometimes slept in a perfect circle. He was perfect from start to finish and I’m so grateful he chose me.
