June 18th 2013 was just another typical Tuesday.
I woke up to the sound of my Burmese cat, Eva, purring next to me as she slept with her body full length between my wife and I. The morning followed a well established routine. My wife went ot the bathroom first, pushing the door to but leaving it ajar. Eva ran at the door and threw herself at it, pushing it wide open. She then sat in front of my wife and purred whilst my wife laughed. Just another tuesday. I went downstairs with Eva on my shoulders. I told her I loved her. I told her I would buy her some fresh fish for her tomorrow as it was her second birthday. I thanked her for helping me through a terrible time in my life. I watched my wife play with her.I fed her, and kissed and stroked her goodbye. After my day's work I came home and waited for Eva to come home from another day in the British Sunshine. She loved to be outside even though it is so dangerous for Burmese. I couldn't keep her inside so just gave up and let her live the life she wanted. Just another Tuesday.
And then it wasn't just another Tuesday.
There was a knock at the door. I looked through the kitchen window and saw our neighbour, with a stranger, both with serious looks on their faces. And I knew. I knew the most intense relationship I had ever had with an animal was over. I knew that she had been ripped from me. Thirty minutes later I buried her in our field. I was screaming in hatred at a God I didn't believe in. I had survived the terrible trauma of infidelity in my marriage only through the unconditional love of Eva. She had sat with me whilst I twice contemplated suicide, batting me with a paw until I gave up the idea, at least for that night. I owed that cat my life, and I had sworn I would spend every day of her life thanking her and making her feel loved. I swore to her every night I would do my best to keep her safe, and I would never hurt her. And I failed. Utterly. She coped with me at my most depressed, and when I was finally ready to embrace life and start paying her back, she was killed. I wailed. I screamed. I beat the ground with my fists and the unfairness of it. How dare God punish an innocent and beautiful cat, and take away her life so early.
For days I lived as a zombie. It was if someone had taken all the color out of the world. All the light. They had taken all the taste out of food, the humour out of company. Then someone took me aside one day and said the following words.
"Pull yourself together. It was only a cat"
For a fraction of a fraction of a second I seriously considered investigating whether I could completely unscrew his head. The rage inside me was palpable. Just a cat? Just a bloody cat? Had I lost complete touch with reality? Was I completely out of control and grieving something that was an inconsequential animal? I said something fairly abrupt and unsuitable for a family forum such as this and walked away. What I suggested he do to himself was probably illegal, and certainly physiologically impractical.
When I had calmed down I realised that from the perspective of a non cat owner, we must seem like a weird bunch. To them, a cat is no more consequential than a fly. If you kept one as a pet you might miss it for a while, but there is no need to get upset about it. It's just a cat.
It's because they don't get it. They do not understand the depth of the relationship it's possible to have with a cat. So I'm writing this to help you understand in your loss than your grief is justified. It's real. It's valid. It's normal. This is because your relationship with your cat was unique in so many ways.
Firstly, it's private. All relationships are private to a degree. No-one understands how much I love my wife. They don't see us together in the privacy of our home. They don't see how she can make me laugh in the worst of situations, and how we can do anything together and have fun. People do see us laughing and joking together. They do see us walking hand in hand. They do see us talking over a candlelit meal. Our relationship was private, but out there for the world to see. My relationship with Eva was utterly private. No-one heard my daily oaths to her. No-one listened to the silly song I used to sing to her every night as she purred on my chest. When I walked in the back garden with Eva at my side, no-one else saw. When she did something daft and looked to see if I was watching, no-one else saw the look that passed between us. when I sat on the floor and contemplated ending my own life, no-one saw the paw hit my hand again and again until my attention shifted to her. I don't care what people say about anthropomorphism. That cat knew, and she saved my life. Hundreds, thousands of moments, shared between Eva and I and now remembered only by myself. My grief for eva was so intense, as yours is for your cat, precisely because that relationship so was private, so intense. Everyone on this forum will understand just how intense that relationship was, just how much you loved your cat. But only you really get it, because that relationship was between you and your cat. Treasure that. Recognise how precious that was, even if it was always going to be too short lived.
Secondly, it's unconditional. I never had an argument with Eva. She never threw a tantrum. We didn't refuse to talk to each other. I didn't sulk. She didn't say something she later regretted. I never insulted her. She never threw anything at me. Sometimes I gave her attention, and sometimes I didn't. Sometimes she was interested in me, and sometimes she wasn't. However, when we did interact there was no hesitation, no holding back. Wow. Think about that. People make careers trying to help others negotiate the intricacies of human relationships, but your relationship with your cat was flawless. Is it any wonder you feel the loss so intensely. Eva didn't care if I was grumpy, or even asleep. If she wanted to show me affection I was getting it.
Thirdly, the relationship was a core part of your life. Eva was certainly a critical part of my daily life. I alluded to it at the start of this post. In the morning, I expected her to be there because she always was. My wife pushed the door of the bathroom to because she KNEW eva would bash it open and come and say hello. I sang my little song to her every night, and every night she would crawl into the bed between my wife and I and we would all fall asleep. On the night Eva was killed my wife somehow, incredibly, miraculously, held herself together whilst I fell apart. When we went to bed the room seemed cold. The house devoid of life. The next morning I was dead inside with no Eva next to me. We woke up in silence. I had never so distraught. My wife got up, went to the bathroom, pushed the door to, and wailed like a child, utterly devastated. She didn't come out for hours. She was just crying, hoping maybe that somehow, impossibly, that door would open. That little brown cat had formed part of her routine, embedded in her life, just as she had mine. What did we do with our lives now? all our routines didn't work anymore because there was a missing element. This is why you feel the loss to intensely. Your cat was part of your routine, and now you have not just lost a pet, you have lost something that formed a cohesive part of your everyday life.
So I want you to understand that your grief is very real, and very valid. You are grieving a very real, intense, and private relationship. It will take you a while to come to terms with this, but my advice regarding people that don't understand is to just ignore them. In fact, pity them. You will forever have the knowledge of your relationship with your cat. They will clearly never experience the wonder of such a relationship. In some ways, 11 months later I am still grieving. I still miss Eva, and sometimes I still cry. and that's ok. It wasn't "just a cat". She was my cat, and I will love her forever.
I'm sorry for your loss.
I woke up to the sound of my Burmese cat, Eva, purring next to me as she slept with her body full length between my wife and I. The morning followed a well established routine. My wife went ot the bathroom first, pushing the door to but leaving it ajar. Eva ran at the door and threw herself at it, pushing it wide open. She then sat in front of my wife and purred whilst my wife laughed. Just another tuesday. I went downstairs with Eva on my shoulders. I told her I loved her. I told her I would buy her some fresh fish for her tomorrow as it was her second birthday. I thanked her for helping me through a terrible time in my life. I watched my wife play with her.I fed her, and kissed and stroked her goodbye. After my day's work I came home and waited for Eva to come home from another day in the British Sunshine. She loved to be outside even though it is so dangerous for Burmese. I couldn't keep her inside so just gave up and let her live the life she wanted. Just another Tuesday.
And then it wasn't just another Tuesday.
There was a knock at the door. I looked through the kitchen window and saw our neighbour, with a stranger, both with serious looks on their faces. And I knew. I knew the most intense relationship I had ever had with an animal was over. I knew that she had been ripped from me. Thirty minutes later I buried her in our field. I was screaming in hatred at a God I didn't believe in. I had survived the terrible trauma of infidelity in my marriage only through the unconditional love of Eva. She had sat with me whilst I twice contemplated suicide, batting me with a paw until I gave up the idea, at least for that night. I owed that cat my life, and I had sworn I would spend every day of her life thanking her and making her feel loved. I swore to her every night I would do my best to keep her safe, and I would never hurt her. And I failed. Utterly. She coped with me at my most depressed, and when I was finally ready to embrace life and start paying her back, she was killed. I wailed. I screamed. I beat the ground with my fists and the unfairness of it. How dare God punish an innocent and beautiful cat, and take away her life so early.
For days I lived as a zombie. It was if someone had taken all the color out of the world. All the light. They had taken all the taste out of food, the humour out of company. Then someone took me aside one day and said the following words.
"Pull yourself together. It was only a cat"
For a fraction of a fraction of a second I seriously considered investigating whether I could completely unscrew his head. The rage inside me was palpable. Just a cat? Just a bloody cat? Had I lost complete touch with reality? Was I completely out of control and grieving something that was an inconsequential animal? I said something fairly abrupt and unsuitable for a family forum such as this and walked away. What I suggested he do to himself was probably illegal, and certainly physiologically impractical.
When I had calmed down I realised that from the perspective of a non cat owner, we must seem like a weird bunch. To them, a cat is no more consequential than a fly. If you kept one as a pet you might miss it for a while, but there is no need to get upset about it. It's just a cat.
It's because they don't get it. They do not understand the depth of the relationship it's possible to have with a cat. So I'm writing this to help you understand in your loss than your grief is justified. It's real. It's valid. It's normal. This is because your relationship with your cat was unique in so many ways.
Firstly, it's private. All relationships are private to a degree. No-one understands how much I love my wife. They don't see us together in the privacy of our home. They don't see how she can make me laugh in the worst of situations, and how we can do anything together and have fun. People do see us laughing and joking together. They do see us walking hand in hand. They do see us talking over a candlelit meal. Our relationship was private, but out there for the world to see. My relationship with Eva was utterly private. No-one heard my daily oaths to her. No-one listened to the silly song I used to sing to her every night as she purred on my chest. When I walked in the back garden with Eva at my side, no-one else saw. When she did something daft and looked to see if I was watching, no-one else saw the look that passed between us. when I sat on the floor and contemplated ending my own life, no-one saw the paw hit my hand again and again until my attention shifted to her. I don't care what people say about anthropomorphism. That cat knew, and she saved my life. Hundreds, thousands of moments, shared between Eva and I and now remembered only by myself. My grief for eva was so intense, as yours is for your cat, precisely because that relationship so was private, so intense. Everyone on this forum will understand just how intense that relationship was, just how much you loved your cat. But only you really get it, because that relationship was between you and your cat. Treasure that. Recognise how precious that was, even if it was always going to be too short lived.
Secondly, it's unconditional. I never had an argument with Eva. She never threw a tantrum. We didn't refuse to talk to each other. I didn't sulk. She didn't say something she later regretted. I never insulted her. She never threw anything at me. Sometimes I gave her attention, and sometimes I didn't. Sometimes she was interested in me, and sometimes she wasn't. However, when we did interact there was no hesitation, no holding back. Wow. Think about that. People make careers trying to help others negotiate the intricacies of human relationships, but your relationship with your cat was flawless. Is it any wonder you feel the loss so intensely. Eva didn't care if I was grumpy, or even asleep. If she wanted to show me affection I was getting it.
Thirdly, the relationship was a core part of your life. Eva was certainly a critical part of my daily life. I alluded to it at the start of this post. In the morning, I expected her to be there because she always was. My wife pushed the door of the bathroom to because she KNEW eva would bash it open and come and say hello. I sang my little song to her every night, and every night she would crawl into the bed between my wife and I and we would all fall asleep. On the night Eva was killed my wife somehow, incredibly, miraculously, held herself together whilst I fell apart. When we went to bed the room seemed cold. The house devoid of life. The next morning I was dead inside with no Eva next to me. We woke up in silence. I had never so distraught. My wife got up, went to the bathroom, pushed the door to, and wailed like a child, utterly devastated. She didn't come out for hours. She was just crying, hoping maybe that somehow, impossibly, that door would open. That little brown cat had formed part of her routine, embedded in her life, just as she had mine. What did we do with our lives now? all our routines didn't work anymore because there was a missing element. This is why you feel the loss to intensely. Your cat was part of your routine, and now you have not just lost a pet, you have lost something that formed a cohesive part of your everyday life.
So I want you to understand that your grief is very real, and very valid. You are grieving a very real, intense, and private relationship. It will take you a while to come to terms with this, but my advice regarding people that don't understand is to just ignore them. In fact, pity them. You will forever have the knowledge of your relationship with your cat. They will clearly never experience the wonder of such a relationship. In some ways, 11 months later I am still grieving. I still miss Eva, and sometimes I still cry. and that's ok. It wasn't "just a cat". She was my cat, and I will love her forever.
I'm sorry for your loss.
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