Content warning: suicide, pet death. This is a very raw and honest look into grieving two friends, one human, one feline. One died by suicide and the other succumbed to heart disease respectively. Please read with care.
I would rip through space and time to stop the death of my cat on December 12, 2023. I would sell my soul, make a deal with the devil to bind his ashes and give him life. I would empty my bank account, sell my possessions, and go through the world with nothing for one more chance to wake up in the morning with him.
I feel like I failed him. I took him to vets and cardiologists. I hospitalized him overnight, I force-fed him pills, rushed him to the ER both times he collapsed over the past three weeks. I knew he had a heart disease from the moment I took him home, but everyone said it was common for cats and wouldn’t necessarily affect his life expectancy. He was seven years old when I brought him home to my apartment, expecting to live at least ten more years with him if not longer. Who was to say he wasn’t the first immortal cat, and I the first immortal person?
I got this cat to save myself from the feeling that I couldn’t save my friend from ending his life. I was one of the only people who knew about the severity of my first college friend’s depression. After we lost him, it was hard to quell my own suicidal thoughts being egged on by the thought that I was the one person who could have stopped this, but I didn’t. So I got a cat. Another being in my studio apartment to hold me accountable to the promise that I would continue on.
When I walked out of the humane society, ten pounds heavier and eighty dollars lighter, I took on the responsibility to care for him. Even though I needed him to save me, I know he needed me to save him. He needed someone to feed him, brush him, scoop his poop, and give him endless affection. And now after I look for him at the end of the bed as the pit in my stomach forms at the realization that he will never be there again, I feel like I’ve failed another life.
Maybe if I had taken him to the vet more, Buba would be here. Maybe if I told someone about the rope he packed on the trip, Andrew would be here. But now they’re both gone, one a hollow feeling that arises when I see his name, or come across an old photo, or see a blue puffy jacket walking down the street. Another is still jagged and festering, rearing its head in unpredictable ways.
The death of my friend was four years ago in January, so the wound has scarred over. It still throbs and stings and weaves through the fabric of my life, but I no longer fear infection. But this new open gash is still growing as it settles in, connecting with the already scarred tapestry of former pain.
Death before has always felt real after an hour or so. But two days after the fact, I still think my cat is coming back. That I’ll grieve his death for a week, but when I go to pick up his ashes, they’ll say there was a mix up and give me back my living cat.
He was never an active cat, so when he died, when I held his body to my chest, it didn’t feel much different. His ears were still tattered. His toe beans were still soft. His claws were still sharp and coated with dried litter. His fur was still shaved on two paws from his various blood draws. I could still feel the edges of his shoulder blade. I could feel the base of his tail and spine. I could still feel the mats that I was never able to cut. He still had peanut butter in his fur from when he spit up his pills. He still rested on my chest as I held his face and kissed his head.
But they took him away, promising to take care of his body that didn’t feel different than thirty minutes before when he was alive. And I have to remind myself that the last time I held him, he wasn’t breathing, and his broken heart wasn’t beating.
Now I look at old photos and I don’t know how to feel. I want to scream louder than anyone has ever screamed because there is no way for me to relive every moment I ever spent with him, and sometimes I feel calm and grateful for the time I got. I want to tear the universe apart for taking him away too soon, and I want to bow down, thanking it for the time it gave me.
And now I’m not talking about only Buba, but about all the grief I’ve ever felt. Because I’ve gone through it before, I know that the feelings slowly converge into a paradox that can be tolerated. That living in this world is both cruel and chaotic, but also precious and intentional. Everyone who’s ever been lost went too soon, but they were also here at the exact right time.
My cat saved me, and I saved him the best I could. I know someday these two truths will bind together as I close my eyes and remember what it felt like to fall asleep with him curled up beside me for the last, most beautiful time.
Kate DeHaan started Calvin as an engineering major and graduated (’22) with a bachelor’s in writing. She is currently working as an executive assistant for Mercer University’s student affairs. She also writes her own blog (LosingKate.com), practices martial arts, and takes full advantage of her apartment’s pool.
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Sending hugs and comfort <3
Thanks so much.
Heartbreakingly beautiful Kate