Cat companions
TW: grief, pet death, final vet visits and heartbreak
When I was little, around four years old, I used to play with my neighbour's cats. I asked my parents for my own. I knew even then that I was spiritually aligned with cats. My parents don’t like cats, so they got a dog instead. When I was twenty-eight, Tom and I adopted two cats: a mother and daughter. Their original names were Pounce and Clawdine, but Tom and I call each other Bubby, and so they became Phubby (grey) and Clubby (white).
Clubby was three years old and had been rescued, riddled with ringworm and significant womb damage. She arrived at the foster carers with an eight-week-old kitten in tow. Clubby was quiet, very very shy, and hardly moved from a cave in a cat tower. They spent a year and a half at the foster carers' home, with two potential adoptions falling through. The foster carer considered keeping them; however, she intuitively knew they were not her cats.
I went to meet them, holding out a creamy chicken treat tube. The foster carer was surprised Phubby came out so quickly to meet me. Clubby stayed inside the hole but let me feed her anyway. The foster carer was worried they would be too shy and that I wouldn’t want them because of it. She didn’t know that I would love them no matter what they were like. I told her we would adopt them, and had to wait two slow weeks to pick them up.
When we brought them home, they were very frightened, but they still had each other. Phubby followed Clubby wherever she went. Clubby hid wherever she could, always in the strangest places. She was so terrified of us. I was incredibly emotional because I had not realised what I was getting myself into. I thought a cat would be like a dog, and that you would bring them home and within a day be best friends. Phubby has always been much more open and trusting of me. But for Clubby, it took months. It took about four months before she finally began initiating interactions with us.
Clubby had a funny little stare, and she was chubby from having kittens so young (and she also loved to eat). She was scared of everything. She was very defensive about personal space and hissed a lot. She had a lot of boundaries. She had a very clear “no.” We joked that her internal monologue was comically villainous. For months, I thought she was angry that I had taken her from that cat cave where she had felt comfortable. But she found other places in our home: little coves we now call “clubholes.” We called her “big mama” and “grandmother ham” because she had an old soul and was shaped like a ham hock.
After months of consistent playtime, quietness, gentleness and joyful greetings, Clubby’s true self began to emerge. She was extremely affectionate and loving. Very gentle. All she wanted was to lie down and be patted. She loved to be brushed with her favourite hairbrush. Every time you lean down to pick something up, she would run over to put her head between the thing and your hand so you would have to pat her. Phubby and Clubby would lay together, grooming each other, wrestling, and cuddling. Over time, Phubby became less dependent on Clubby. This was a really big deal as Phubby had always been her shadow. She was growing up.
Only a week or two ago, I had just been thinking about how it took about two years for us all to finally get to a place in which we all deeply trusted each other. Things recently turned a corner when Clubby had some teeth removed that were causing her pain. Both of the cats had gotten so confident, even coming out to be patted by visitors, which completely floored me. All four of us would sit on the couch together, cuddling and relaxing, and I would bask in how heavenly it was. It was something I had always wanted, and it was finally happening.
I had imagined them both present for the next stages of our life, that we would have at least the next ten years together, and that they would be there while we raised children. Clubby, having been a mother herself, would understand my pregnancy and be there to help me. My children would annoy her, but she would let them do it because they loved each other.
Adopting Clubby and Phubby marked the beginning of our family. We had two years of this life; this beautiful, peaceful life. It is now one of my greatest treasures.
Last week, Clubby began to have seizures. I was home alone at the time, and I knew that something was very wrong. In my panic, I had not thought to take a video. For pet owners, it is incredibly important to take a video when something like this happens. Because when we took her to the vet, all the vet had to go on was my description. I told the vet I thought it was a seizure. However, Clubby appeared to be acting normal (although terrified of being at the vet). At one point, the vet postulated she might have had something stuck in her paw to be acting as I described. I told Tom I wasn’t being dramatic. I know that what I saw was serious.
The vet had blood tests done, and everything appeared to be normal. After being at the vet for four hours, she sent us home and told us to monitor her. I said to Tom that this was, I guess, the best-case scenario, because apparently nothing was wrong. I began to hope that maybe it would be okay. I dropped Tom back at work, and took Clubby home again. As soon as we got home, she couldn’t walk. She had lost control of the right side of her body. This time I took a video and the vet agreed it was something neurological. We took her to another vet who specialises in neurology. We put both cats in the car and I knew (and as I found out later, Tom also secretly knew) that we would be returning home without Clubby.
I had to accept that this was happening. The future is not going to be how I’d imagined it would. Her daughter would be alone for the first time. But most importantly, we didn’t want Clubby to be in pain or scared like she was. I sat with them both on the floor of the vet, feeling an immense responsibility to rise above my sadness because my purpose was to protect them. The vet nurse said we could take her home or leave her there overnight while we waited for the neurologist to be available. Tom and I discussed our options; we wanted to take her home, but decided that would be for us and our peace of mind. If we really wanted her to have the best chance, we should leave her with the professionals. So the vet nurse took her away. I was praying it was temporary. I asked Tom to take a picture of us just in case. I stroked her soft little body the whole time we were there, but in her eyes, she was already far away.
That night was Phubby’s first night away from Clubby in her life. She walked around the apartment yowling. It’s a specific sound she makes when she is calling for her mother. It was the sound I heard all night as I lay awake.
At 6 am, we got the call to ask us if we still wanted to resuscitate after Clubby had more seizures, and I had to tell the vet over the phone to stop so that she could go.
We saw her again in a fluorescent clinical room with pamphlets for pet bereavement counselling. They had laid her on an old grey fluffy bed so it looked like she was sleeping. We patted her and told her we were so grateful to have met her and so lucky to have her in our lives, and that we would look after her baby.
Clubby was five years old and this all happened in less than 24 hours. She had been completely fine otherwise. On a normal day, I go through worst-case scenarios in my head, but this was one I had not imagined yet.
Upon feeling the pain in my chest, I realised this was my first heartbreak. I’d been sad before, sure, and had bad bouts of mental health. I’d experienced elderly family members and pets die, which of course is sad but there is still a sense of relief for them in it. This was my first experience of rug-pulled-out-underneath-you kind of loss, the kind where you don’t understand why it’s sunny outside and how five babies wailing at the supermarket is comforting because it sounds like how you feel.
It’s a completely different kind of pain. A hollowness in the heart. I see movement in the corner of my eye and get excited, thinking that it’s her. I wake up and have to remember that it happened, and that I will never see her in this realm again. I have to keep looking at the picture of her in that grey bed to remind myself that it did happen and she’s not just sitting in another room because every time I forget, it hurts again to remember.
I had expressed to Tom that I was afraid because if this was how I felt about a cat, how was I going to survive the rest of my life? As I am now entering a stage of life where death is more frequent, how will I bear it? He said it doesn’t matter that she is a different animal; she’s still a part of our family, and she was still so young.
Not only do we have our grief, but we are looking after Phubby too. Tom said it’s important not to project our stuff onto her. We have to keep the routine. We have to introduce new toys and places to sit. I have to remove the litter. Phubby knows something has happened. The less she cries out for her, the more she realises Clubby isn’t coming back. She comes over to me and lies next to me when I start crying. She used to not be very interested in pats, but now she needs our touch. I try not to follow her around and to give her space when she needs it. But I can feel the worry and the intensity of my love that was divided into two streams now flowing directly into her, and I need to be careful of that overwhelming both of us. We created this little depression station in the corner here for us both. We are wordlessly grieving together. Phubby began sitting in a pet bed she had never sat in before. It was the first bed we bought, back before we adopted them, when we thought we were only getting one cat.
If I consider my beliefs, that everything happens as it should, I can see why this happened. It’s not any less painful, and I do wish it weren’t this way. I wish we had gotten much, much more time with her. But this is their journey. Clubby, who was so traumatised, finally found her home which was full of love and where she was able to open up, trust people and lay out with her belly exposed. For the final years of her short life, she was happy, safe, comfortable and loved dearly. She, tragically, was not meant to be here for this next part, as much as we wish she were.
I’m grateful they have the same eyes and similar faces. This is an opportunity for Phubby to blossom and grow more independent, as she is very curious and adventurous, yet never wanted to go anywhere without her mother. Developmentally, cats do not need their mothers in adulthood; we were lucky they continued to bond as they did. We have been meaning to train Phubby to go on a lead so that she can go outside and experience the world. As much as they were companions, Phubby was limited by her mother’s trauma. She is the kind of cat you could take on walks or bring along to explore something new. The world will open up for her now.
Clubby taught me that a firm “no” is good enough. Sometimes it’s okay to want space. It’s nothing personal. She taught me not to expect people to change or hope that they be different than they are. She told me it’s okay to show the belly, but to make sure it's only around trusted people. I like that cats take time, they don’t do things they don’t want to do, and you have to earn their love. Seeing the progress she made from the terrified cat hiding under our couch to every morning when I wake up jumping up on the bed to be patted by me is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever experienced in my life. Now her passing has taught me I should courageously remain open to love, no matter how fleeting life is.
It was all too short-lived, but I am so grateful she happened to us. She, like all angels, came into my life when I needed her most. Although we have to live without her now, I’d rather the time we did have together than not at all, even if it is painful for us who are still here. I’ve already seen her in my dreams, in the realm she now exists, and she is happy and free.
