https://www.thetimes.co.uk/article/i-cant-get-over-the-death-of-my-cat-is-this-normal-c7bx85qmp
https://archive.is/K16xd
I can’t get over the death of my cat. Is this normal?
Buster the cat and Anna Maxted had ten magical years together. They were extremely close — yet she didn’t expect to feel quite so pole-axed by his death
Anna Maxted
Monday January 22 2024
My cat died. Poor, thin words that make it sound like nothing. “There’s been a death in the family,” my son says, which feels more appropriate. Five months ago now. And God, I’m so tediously weighted by grief. The joy in my day is diminished. I’m functional of course, normal service resumed. Socialising, working, parenting, smiling. Though watching unhealthy amounts of mediocre television to fill in the gaps. The cracks are where the dark gets in. I’m bland and grey inside.
Buster, a beautiful brawny Bengal, was my “soul cat” — and in our ten years together I was his person. We had such a bond. I loved his slightly difficult personality. He could be irritable with my husband, who wasn’t as doting, but so patient with our boys, who understood and adored him. And he had fans: after his death the little girls next door cried, and a gruff neighbour approached me to express his shock and tell me that Buster liked joining him and his grandson in games of kitchen football.
I’ve always been a cat worshipper. I remember staying at an aunt’s as a bereaved child — her Siamese’s soft leap onto my bed, her curling up and purring. It felt magical. My first two cats, bought as soon as I moved into my first flat, died after long, cosseted lives. They were our darlings, and the vet putting them to sleep was horrendous. But they didn’t suffer. I did, as did the children. (My middle son was six, and I blunderingly told him as we walked home from a playdate — he collapsed to the ground.)
Buster’s death is worse. I let him out early one Saturday in August, and when I opened the front door around 9am he didn’t come in for breakfast. It was unusual. I work from home and would spend most of my day close to him; I know his routine. I looked for him that afternoon and kept looking. My eldest son looked. My husband looked. I messaged our street WhatsApp. The next morning I was already outside looking when a neighbour messaged me.
On his run he saw a cat that resembled Buster “unconscious” on the pavement in the next road. “Do you mean dead?” I replied. The neighbour appeared and raced with me to the spot, and there was my beloved animal, my silly, loyal and loving friend, curled up by the road, lifeless. There was no visible clue as to what had killed him. All I could do was stroke his fur and cry: “Oh my God, Buster, I’m so sorry.” The poor neighbour, who had never met me before, escorted me home as I wailed.
They are so themselves, our animals, each such a unique character, and you feel, as my husband once put it, that “he wasn’t a cat — he was a person disguised as a cat”. And it’s so brutal. This violent end. I can’t believe this could happen to something so precious, who meant so much, was so prized and loved and looked after. He slept on my bed with me every night and it felt primal. I can’t believe I can’t have him back. There’s nothing as surreal as death. I’m restless, untethered; there’s no peace. I’m fighting with my own brain, as if there’s a way of undoing this if I struggle hard enough.
My youngest, 17, was on holiday when Buster died. He sobbed. He messaged me nonstop and came home early. His pain cut through me. “I’m worried about how much I will miss my boy when I get back.” “It’s just really scary.” “I haven’t got it in me to accept this.” “I will really miss that chatterbox.” “It makes me so angry that I can’t or couldn’t do anything to prevent this.” “I feel like I will do anything other than accept this as truth.” “It’s just so unfair on him.” And, “I just want to be with my boy just one more time.”
My husband convinced our sons (21, 19 and 17) that Buster, a bit of a fat lad, had a heart attack and died instantly, painlessly. It’s some consolation for them. I try to believe it. But Buster hadn’t been where he was found when I’d searched the day before. I call a pet bereavement helpline and the woman suggests he’d been clipped by a car — not the comfort she thinks it is. I feel so bad for not finding him. It was my duty to protect him.
I suggested this article because I want the grief acknowledged. I joke that he deserves a Times obituary. Also, people understanding helps, momentarily. But for months I couldn’t write about Buster. It’s easier to be numb. I thought this would be cathartic, but it’s too painful to face the feelings head-on. I feel like a stupid little knocked-down skittle. It’s like walking into the sea and being lifted, turned and tumbled by a wave, and you’re upside down underwater, flailing, helpless against something this fierce and unmerciful.
Like most, I’ve suffered multiple bereavements. Sometimes life feels like a fight against slow suffocation beneath an accumulation of losses. Now, this death — it feels like a terrible mistake that needs to be rectified. If only I could explain. No, see, this wasn’t just “a cat”. This was our boy. He was so important. We loved him so much. I feel wool-headed and so tired I could go to bed for the day. I am desolate and I don’t know how to recover. It’s like Waiting for Godot: you’re killing time, waiting for the thing that never happens (Buster coming back from the dead). “I don’t want Buster to come back from the dead,” my husband says mildly.
My sons and I list what we loved about Buster. He liked encouragement when getting comfortable, curling around making kittenish mews, and we’d say: “Park your bottom down.” His habit of sitting on a coat hanger or the edge of a book and me removing five items from beneath him. That he’d jump hard onto my stomach in the dead of night. That if needs must he’d pee in the bath plughole (so clever — some cats use the sofa). His enduring hatred of Heathcliff, our other cat, ex-feral, equally revered. That he’d butt his head into his bowl before you’d emptied the food into it. That he’d come indoors and flop on the floor. Also: eating prawns loudly; stretching out so long; finding a spot to sleep we didn’t know about; everyone in the street knowing and admiring him; being so gentle and handsome, letting you hug him then struggling away; seeming standoffish but actually loving and needing us and enjoying being with us. The happiness of opening the door and him appearing.
My sons send me videos, one of Buster engrossed in cat TV (YouTube footage of birds and squirrels) on a laptop. I zoom in on the thousands of photos so his face is cat-sized and I kiss the glass. It’s wonderful and terrible because I can spend time with him and I’m like an alcoholic wanting one last drink so reality is staved off a while longer. It’s confusing because he’s not receding into the past — I literally just saw him. And then I go to bed and he isn’t there. My 17-year-old’s girlfriend paints an incredible portrait of him, it’s like his soul is still with me.
I tell you this sounding mad and wild, but my mourning is quiet, necessarily tucked away, neatly folded, made small — one can’t bang on. Eventually I book a session with Wendy Andrew, the “pet loss lady” of the Scottish Pet Bereavement Counselling Service, who’s kind and wise. It helps. I derive comfort from seeing people in the street or online with their beloved animals. Impulsively I post about my sadness on a Bengal owners’ Facebook group and receive hundreds of heartfelt responses — I realise I’m not a weird anomaly. One woman, whose cat died in similar circumstances, writes: “I’m killed inside.” I reply to every one.
I’m defensive — ready to condemn anyone withholding sympathy for their failure of humanity. But I know others mourning people and I feel guilty. The truth is, not one person tries to minimise this. Friends hug me. Colleagues send notes. My son’s best mate turns up with flowers. Their generosity is so touching. And fellow cat lovers remind me that grief isn’t a competition. Never feel guilty for loving, one says. And I don’t, not really. I’ll always be grateful for what I had, for the great gift of that small animal, and all he was to me. Despite the emotional cost.
https://archive.is/K16xd
I can’t get over the death of my cat. Is this normal?
Buster the cat and Anna Maxted had ten magical years together. They were extremely close — yet she didn’t expect to feel quite so pole-axed by his death
Anna Maxted
Monday January 22 2024
My cat died. Poor, thin words that make it sound like nothing. “There’s been a death in the family,” my son says, which feels more appropriate. Five months ago now. And God, I’m so tediously weighted by grief. The joy in my day is diminished. I’m functional of course, normal service resumed. Socialising, working, parenting, smiling. Though watching unhealthy amounts of mediocre television to fill in the gaps. The cracks are where the dark gets in. I’m bland and grey inside.
Buster, a beautiful brawny Bengal, was my “soul cat” — and in our ten years together I was his person. We had such a bond. I loved his slightly difficult personality. He could be irritable with my husband, who wasn’t as doting, but so patient with our boys, who understood and adored him. And he had fans: after his death the little girls next door cried, and a gruff neighbour approached me to express his shock and tell me that Buster liked joining him and his grandson in games of kitchen football.
I’ve always been a cat worshipper. I remember staying at an aunt’s as a bereaved child — her Siamese’s soft leap onto my bed, her curling up and purring. It felt magical. My first two cats, bought as soon as I moved into my first flat, died after long, cosseted lives. They were our darlings, and the vet putting them to sleep was horrendous. But they didn’t suffer. I did, as did the children. (My middle son was six, and I blunderingly told him as we walked home from a playdate — he collapsed to the ground.)
Buster’s death is worse. I let him out early one Saturday in August, and when I opened the front door around 9am he didn’t come in for breakfast. It was unusual. I work from home and would spend most of my day close to him; I know his routine. I looked for him that afternoon and kept looking. My eldest son looked. My husband looked. I messaged our street WhatsApp. The next morning I was already outside looking when a neighbour messaged me.
On his run he saw a cat that resembled Buster “unconscious” on the pavement in the next road. “Do you mean dead?” I replied. The neighbour appeared and raced with me to the spot, and there was my beloved animal, my silly, loyal and loving friend, curled up by the road, lifeless. There was no visible clue as to what had killed him. All I could do was stroke his fur and cry: “Oh my God, Buster, I’m so sorry.” The poor neighbour, who had never met me before, escorted me home as I wailed.
They are so themselves, our animals, each such a unique character, and you feel, as my husband once put it, that “he wasn’t a cat — he was a person disguised as a cat”. And it’s so brutal. This violent end. I can’t believe this could happen to something so precious, who meant so much, was so prized and loved and looked after. He slept on my bed with me every night and it felt primal. I can’t believe I can’t have him back. There’s nothing as surreal as death. I’m restless, untethered; there’s no peace. I’m fighting with my own brain, as if there’s a way of undoing this if I struggle hard enough.
My youngest, 17, was on holiday when Buster died. He sobbed. He messaged me nonstop and came home early. His pain cut through me. “I’m worried about how much I will miss my boy when I get back.” “It’s just really scary.” “I haven’t got it in me to accept this.” “I will really miss that chatterbox.” “It makes me so angry that I can’t or couldn’t do anything to prevent this.” “I feel like I will do anything other than accept this as truth.” “It’s just so unfair on him.” And, “I just want to be with my boy just one more time.”
My husband convinced our sons (21, 19 and 17) that Buster, a bit of a fat lad, had a heart attack and died instantly, painlessly. It’s some consolation for them. I try to believe it. But Buster hadn’t been where he was found when I’d searched the day before. I call a pet bereavement helpline and the woman suggests he’d been clipped by a car — not the comfort she thinks it is. I feel so bad for not finding him. It was my duty to protect him.
I suggested this article because I want the grief acknowledged. I joke that he deserves a Times obituary. Also, people understanding helps, momentarily. But for months I couldn’t write about Buster. It’s easier to be numb. I thought this would be cathartic, but it’s too painful to face the feelings head-on. I feel like a stupid little knocked-down skittle. It’s like walking into the sea and being lifted, turned and tumbled by a wave, and you’re upside down underwater, flailing, helpless against something this fierce and unmerciful.
Like most, I’ve suffered multiple bereavements. Sometimes life feels like a fight against slow suffocation beneath an accumulation of losses. Now, this death — it feels like a terrible mistake that needs to be rectified. If only I could explain. No, see, this wasn’t just “a cat”. This was our boy. He was so important. We loved him so much. I feel wool-headed and so tired I could go to bed for the day. I am desolate and I don’t know how to recover. It’s like Waiting for Godot: you’re killing time, waiting for the thing that never happens (Buster coming back from the dead). “I don’t want Buster to come back from the dead,” my husband says mildly.
My sons and I list what we loved about Buster. He liked encouragement when getting comfortable, curling around making kittenish mews, and we’d say: “Park your bottom down.” His habit of sitting on a coat hanger or the edge of a book and me removing five items from beneath him. That he’d jump hard onto my stomach in the dead of night. That if needs must he’d pee in the bath plughole (so clever — some cats use the sofa). His enduring hatred of Heathcliff, our other cat, ex-feral, equally revered. That he’d butt his head into his bowl before you’d emptied the food into it. That he’d come indoors and flop on the floor. Also: eating prawns loudly; stretching out so long; finding a spot to sleep we didn’t know about; everyone in the street knowing and admiring him; being so gentle and handsome, letting you hug him then struggling away; seeming standoffish but actually loving and needing us and enjoying being with us. The happiness of opening the door and him appearing.
My sons send me videos, one of Buster engrossed in cat TV (YouTube footage of birds and squirrels) on a laptop. I zoom in on the thousands of photos so his face is cat-sized and I kiss the glass. It’s wonderful and terrible because I can spend time with him and I’m like an alcoholic wanting one last drink so reality is staved off a while longer. It’s confusing because he’s not receding into the past — I literally just saw him. And then I go to bed and he isn’t there. My 17-year-old’s girlfriend paints an incredible portrait of him, it’s like his soul is still with me.
I tell you this sounding mad and wild, but my mourning is quiet, necessarily tucked away, neatly folded, made small — one can’t bang on. Eventually I book a session with Wendy Andrew, the “pet loss lady” of the Scottish Pet Bereavement Counselling Service, who’s kind and wise. It helps. I derive comfort from seeing people in the street or online with their beloved animals. Impulsively I post about my sadness on a Bengal owners’ Facebook group and receive hundreds of heartfelt responses — I realise I’m not a weird anomaly. One woman, whose cat died in similar circumstances, writes: “I’m killed inside.” I reply to every one.
I’m defensive — ready to condemn anyone withholding sympathy for their failure of humanity. But I know others mourning people and I feel guilty. The truth is, not one person tries to minimise this. Friends hug me. Colleagues send notes. My son’s best mate turns up with flowers. Their generosity is so touching. And fellow cat lovers remind me that grief isn’t a competition. Never feel guilty for loving, one says. And I don’t, not really. I’ll always be grateful for what I had, for the great gift of that small animal, and all he was to me. Despite the emotional cost.
