Yahoo News ‘Why, as a 51-year-old woman, did I find losing my pet cat so difficult?’
In 2014 our family adopted Abby, a gorgeous white cat with eyes like David Bowie. We fell head over heels in love. Abby wasn’t like other cats: she came when you called her, respected her bedtime curfew and was never happier than when she was on your lap being told how much she was adored.
A year later we brought a lurcher we named Ziggy into the house. They grew up happily together, exchanging a morning nose bump, after which Abby would weave around Ziggy’s long legs, skimming her tail across his belly, his eyes closed in delight. We even put one of those cheesy stencils on the back of the car, a mum, a dad, two girls, a dog and a cat. Our family was complete.
I’d always worked from home in Twyford, Berkshire but during lockdown our pets relished the extra company of our teenage girls, who welcomed any distraction from home-schooling. I assumed as normal life returned, any problems would be behind us. Then early one morning, an unexpected ring of the doorbell changed everything.
My husband Simon answered and I heard a woman ask: “Do you have a white cat?” before dissolving into tears. A wave of nausea swept across me as I raced to the street. Just across from our garden gate I found Simon with Abby swaddled in a soft blanket, flanked by concerned strangers. “Is she dead?” I asked. The look on everyone’s faces told me she was. My heartache was instant.
Abby had been hit by a van overtaking a long row of parked vehicles. While the van hadn’t stopped, several passers-by had; wrapping Abby up gently and knocking on doors to find her home. We thanked everyone and went inside.
In tears, the whole family stood clutching each other unsure of what to do next. Part of me was still hoping that by some miracle Abby would spring back into life, despite the blood and her glassy eyes.
Our vet had been closed since the start of the pandemic, so we had to find an alternative surgery. Struggling to sanitise our hands, navigate one-way systems and put on our masks, we handed Abby’s body over in an unfamiliar centre. The staff were kind and gentle, but when we discussed cremation, the appropriate leaflets couldn’t be found. I could barely speak. Everything seemed so much harder than it should be. It was as if I’d lost a member of my family.
I missed Abby every time I came home, as she always used to run to meet me. I spent a lot of time in tears, wondering “What if it had been raining and she hadn’t gone out?” and “What if she’d crossed a minute later?” I was incandescent with rage when other cars sped down our street. I barely ate and had no interest in seeing friends. I was showing all the classic emotions of grief. But I kept asking myself why, as a 51-year-old woman, I was finding losing Abby so difficult? Was I dealing with more than my cat’s death?
I spoke to pet grief expert Julie Wood, who explained that when pet loss hits us particularly hard, it’s often because of the snowball effect of other emotions we’ve not fully faced. In my case I think all the fear and frustration I’d ignored during the pandemic came to the surface. Julie also believes the responsibility we take for our pets, as we take decisions for them, heightens any guilt we experience. I knew the post-pandemic traffic was particularly frantic, and that Abby had got used to a far quieter street. Why hadn’t I foreseen this and kept her in during rush hour? Was I to blame?
Our pets became far more important to us during lockdown. With more time spent at home, the bond we have with the animals that bring us joy has deepened, while social distancing has perhaps led to an emotional gap between humans. Put simply, Covid made a difficult situation harder, heightening the emotions I experienced and making the practicalities of assessing vet care more complex.
Julie had many tips to help me accept Abby’s passing. She recommends pet owners acknowledge the life lost with some form of commemoration, just as we have a funeral when we lose a person. Raise a glass, she suggests, and remember the good times. This allows you to start to process and manage the grief.
In the end I had Abby’s ashes made into a ring. It is as beautiful and as precious as she was.
