The cat that’s no longer here
Or, why we mourn our pets
If there are spirit animals, my wife’s is a cat.
A lot of the poems at the beginning of this month in Every Day, Luv are about our family’s adjustment to the loss of our cat, Miya, who passed away around this time in 2021.
Prior to getting married, my relationship with having pets in the house lived somewhere between indifferent and no-thanks. My sister and I grew up with a procession of rabbits, fish, and birds, picked largely because they were comparatively low maintenance (well, not the birds, it turns out, but that could be a whole other post).
Prior to getting married, my relationship with having pets in the house lived somewhere between indifferent and no-thanks.
Then, at some point, my sister really wanted a dog. So we got one. I was not thrilled. I’m not sure why, but I have never really been a dog person. Something about the ever-present tongue, the ever-moist nose, and the ever-greasy fur just gives me a major case of ick. I’ve never understood people who can bury their face and hands in their pooch’s fur and then go pick up a sandwich as if nothing has happened.
The wife, however, has always been a devoted pet lover. From the childhood St. Bernard (who was supposed to look after the sisters while mom was at work like the Darlings in Peter Pan) to a telepathic goldfish to many, many cats. If there are spirit animals, my wife’s is a cat. If we were ever animals in our past lives, my wife was a cat. Cats have always been a vital part of her emotional life and continue to be today. Cats are family.
Miya came into our lives almost by accident—cat sitting for a sick neighbor who eventually passed away. She was a furry southern belle with an attitude. She became family. When she eventually passed away from lymphoma, it was no different than a human family member passing away. Which was a surprise to me that I felt that way too. I had witnessed that same procession of rabbits, fish, birds, and eventually, the family dog, pass away with not much more than a low level of sadness.
But with Miya it was different. We all felt her absence. Particularly in my morning routine, getting the family up and running. I would put out her wet food, and, for a while, cook raw meat for her, which, as a vegan, was its own adventure. So, for most early mornings, it was just the two of us. And when she was gone, it really felt like a family member had left.
It took me a while to come around to it, but I now get it. I get why some people treat pets like any other family member. I get why the loss stays with you long after they’re no longer puttering around. And it took me many poems three years ago to begin to work through that.