Heartbreak of losing my purrfect companion
FOR the past two nights I have slept on the living room sofa. It’s quiet in there, thick curtains blanking out the noise of the traffic, the only sound the soft purr of my cat as she snoozes on a blanket next to me.
Selkie is dying of cancer. She’s seven. We only realised something was wrong last weekend when her back legs started going out from under her.
On Wednesday we were told she had intestinal lymphoma, which has likely spread to her central nervous system. The vet did not recommend treatment. Instead, she said, we could take her home for a few days, and ‘make a plan’ for early next week.
And so each night, instead of going to bed, I set up camp on the sofa next to her blanket, so that if she wakes in the night she is not alone. I can reach out and stroke her soft, trusting head, bring her water, or fetch her food bowl. After seven years of constant companionship, it’s the very least I can do.
Anyone who has ever owned and loved a pet knows the dreaded pact. As Rudyard Kipling wrote in his heartbreaking poem The Power of the Dog: ‘When we are certain of sorrow in store, why do we always arrange for more?’ Why indeed? Except that for us serial pet owners, there is no alternative.
Our pets are part of the fabric of our domestic lives. Their needs, quirks and characters are sewn into the rhythm of our homes. We trip over water bowls, lie perched on the end of crowded beds, spend untold amounts on gourmet food and vet bills, clean up inevitable accidents. And we do it happily, because of what we get in return.
During the pandemic, people rushed out to get a kitten or a puppy. In the midst of chaos and uncertainty, the uncomplicated love of an animal has never felt more crucial. When I got Selkie back in 2013, I was single. I had lost my previous cat, who was the grand old age of 18, several months before and could not cope with the silence. Having another heartbeat around the house was important.
But I could not have anticipated what a character she would turn out to be.
Every evening she’d wait for me on the stairs, letting forth an elaborate welcome of chirps and meows. At night she’d leap up on to the bed the moment I got into it, and when I put the light out she’d crawl into my arms, snaking her paw round my shoulder.
She would not look out of place in a Disney movie, all fluffy tail and extravagant gestures. She was there through heartbreaks, and a difficult work period.
Initially suspicious of my fiancé, as all protective pets should surely be, she has finally given him the seal of approval, and bumps noses with him every time he appears.
When I got the call from the hospital to say there was nothing more they could do for my father, she sat patiently through my tears, resting her head under my chin, purring soothingly, paws wrapped round my fingers.
This is why we make the pact. Because our pets are our ballast. Because when everything else is falling apart, they remain by our side. They don’t care if we’ve piled on the pounds, messed up at work, or if Donald Trump has gone off script again.
THEY care only about us, and what time dinner is, and whether they’ll get some of those nice chicken treats before bedtime. This year, 2020, has been one of unbearable loss. And small as it is, this is mine.
Selkie may only be a cat, but she’s my cat. My pet. The heartbeat of my home.
Because we are living in Covid times, I have been told by the vet that I cannot be with her at the end. There will be no gentle cuddle as she slips away. No final farewell in the silent aftermath.
Instead, I must pass over her carry box in the street, a ghastly goodbye that I cannot bear to think about. But we are not there. Not quite yet. So for now I stay on the sofa, fulfilling my part of the pact, certain of the sorrow in store. And in the silence, listening to the soft rise and fall of her purr.