My cat just died, and it's destroyed me

Your food bowls are still full.

Pringle was just three years old when he went limp in my arms.

I’ll never forget the weight land in my lap as his life was cut off, and I’ll never not see that glaze over his golden green eyes.

Anyone who has loved an animal knows that the day eventually comes when you have to say goodbye, but this time just felt so cruel. My relationships with animals have been unconditional, and like everyone else, I’ve had my heart torn to shreds on more than one occasion. I’ve had pets for my entire life, so this isn’t all that new to me except in all the ways that it is.

Four days ago, I was sat in the dark and scrolling on my phone when I heard a blood curdling cry from across the room. I ran over to where I knew he was. He’d just had a little bit of food and had gone to lay in his box, but he never got back up. Panting and wide eyed, I hope he had no idea of what was going on. I hope all he knew was that I was there. Running up the stairs with him felt like forever, but seconds were all it took for him to leave me. I got him to the top just in time for him to look up at me and then at my partner, and he was gone.

Somehow, I stayed calm for about twenty minutes. Perhaps it was shock or just denial. Perhaps I thought he could still hear me. He didn’t deserve to be afraid and he needed me to stay calm. I owed him that, until I was sure.

When I finally took him from my arms and laid him on the bed, I could no longer pretend he’d fallen asleep. I wrapped him up in one of his blankets, and sobbed on his body. I begged him to take me with him. Making bargains with the universe, I thought maybe it could take me too. Isn’t this what it always wanted? I’ve seen enough, please take me too.

He was only three and he was absolutely fine. There were no signs, no signals. We didn’t see it coming and I can’t unhear that final, painful cry. Over and over, those thirty seconds play for me on repeat. I can mute myself when I watch them back but I can’t hush his last howl. I freeze frames and stop time, trying to figure out how I could have changed the ending. Death… it’s such a predictable one, isn’t it?

Over the last few days I’ve been lost. People keep telling me that I’ve done this before, they try to remind me it always gets better. Sure, it does get better. Then it gets terrible again.

Stop telling me things are okay, because I’ve had enough.

My mother tells me this is nothing but life’s ups and downs, and is not the worst time of my life. Great, more to look forward to I guess. I don’t know why she thought the idea of old pain and new pain would make it any better. She thinks tough love is the answer, despite the fact she’s never responded particularly well to it herself.

To be honest, it pissed me off. She’s acutely aware that my therapist once said I have enough trauma for three lifetimes, can’t she acknowledge that maybe I’ve hit my limit? Just let me feel like dying. Just let me be.

Death is inevitable and none of us can avoid it, obviously. Upon reflection, I think it might just break my curse.

I make jokes about bullets and my mother threatens to send my dad to come and get me, he’ll take me away. I tell her that’s fine- if she wants me to kill myself faster, anyway. Don’t threaten me with a good time. I hate that place, and she knows it.

She knows I can’t die, because I have the mortgage. I have shit to do, and people who count on me, but all I want to do is to go with Pringle and keep him safe. I don’t want him to be alone. What if he keeps crying, and I can’t hear him?

I can’t die because I have my partner, and he needs me here too. I can’t die because I have friends who need me to save them over and over again and keep them fed before payday. I sure as hell can’t die because of all the fucking responsibilities I never asked for, and the voice in my head that knows better.

I can’t die, because life won’t let me.

Pringle wasn’t just a cat, he was the only thing I kept getting out of bed for. Anxious and twitchy, he was a lot like me and we spoke in codes and signals. He hated loud noises except when he was making them, and he held onto his tail for comfort when he slept. We had games and traditions, and he had different meows that he tried to shape into words. In the end, we had no language barriers. He sometimes looked like a mouse and sometimes looked like a giant. He always sulked when it was time to take down the Christmas tree. We were each other’s support system, and I loved him completely. I know that he knew it but I just wish he got to have more of it.

He never did anything wrong. It’s so unfair.

When I was unlovable, he didn’t care. When I was ugly, I looked the same. When I was anxious, he knew how it felt. Saying goodbye is always part of the package but I thought we’d have so much more time with him. This wasn’t meant to happen yet. We were meant to have more time, he was fine. One day, he was meant to evolve into an old, slow grandpa cat who fell asleep after a long and indulgent life with his sister, Piglet.

My partner’s been silent crying and I know he’s hurting. Pringle was our baby. He whimpers that “the little boy is gone” on repeat to try and suffocate his disbelief. He’s been asking Chat GPT if there’s anything we could have done, and I hate AI but it’s the only thing that seems to give him comfort. I’ve picked my gold nail polish away and my lips have tasted like salt since Monday.

I’ve heard phantom trills and chirps but he’s not at the top of the stairs anymore. The day we dropped him off wrapped in blankets and sleeping with toys, I threw myself over the top step and begged him to come back.

You were meant to be here.

It’s irrelevant now, but I used to obsess over keeping this house safe and I used to count things and fill water bowls. All of my rules and routines to keep you safe never mattered anyway. I kept you away from dogs and cars, I checked plug sockets and locked front doors six times. I did everything I could to make sure our days wouldn’t run out yet. I agonised what would happen to you if I died first, and I was so afraid of cardiac arrest I never considered it would take you instead.

For days, I couldn’t shower and wash you off me. What was the point? I was already covered in death. It was under my nails and stuck in my hair, and I’d never get rid of it.

Food was pointless, because I’d never need it again. Sleep was impossible, because how could I allow myself to rest and forget? The few times I could drift off, I woke up looking for you. I still say your name when it’s dinner time, and Piglet sleeps in your spots now. We let her say goodbye to you but she misses you. We didn’t know she liked you this much, and she’s been suffering since it happened.

When I do fall asleep now, I wake up gasping for air. Is it time for me to be with you yet?

There’s ham in the fridge that’s out of date, and your food bowls are still full. We don’t have the heart to get rid of them yet.

Did you hear it when we said goodbye? Did you feel it when we wrapped you up and put you to bed? We stroked the little bump on your nose, and we touched the velvet of your ears. I hope the bed we made was comfortable enough, we tried our best to make it nice for you.

All I can do is sit and all I have is silence. I sit and wait for you, I sit and wait for me. Maybe I should leave early and come find you.

This grief is like a rope, but I am begging someone to kick the chair. I wait for the drop that never comes.

They say it comes in waves, but this time it does not. Grief is just a whirlpool, it’s just death trying to get two for the price of one. The reaper has always been an opportunist and I don’t have the strength to swim beneath this force. Oceans and salt just pull me under, and my lungs fill up and wait to burst.

I used to hate that this house was haunted, but now I pray you sit in the doorways and watch me too. I hope you have sticks to throw around in the air and foam balls to chase down the stairs. I hope there’s Christmas trees where you are, and blue baubles to pull from the branches. I hope it’s not lonely and I hope you still know we’re here.

When we dropped you off for one last goodbye, I told you I’d pick you up the very next day. They’d let me know when you were ready for me. They’d give me pawprints and a box with your name on it. I’d take you home when it was time, and spend my days cradling you on my lap so you knew I wouldn’t forget. I sobbed and told you that you were the love of my life, my one and only light. You were the only one who knew how to help me survive. You stupid, little silly cat.

I kissed you on your tiny head, and your fur was wet because of me. You’d have been so annoyed at that but you always let me love you anyway, no matter how much it inconvenienced you. I tucked my tissue behind your head, so you’d take part of me with you wherever you went. There’s still fluff between your paws, but now they are frozen just like me. You are so cold and still, and I might just turn to stone.

Whenever I left the house, I used to say things to reassure you. I’d come back a few times to say it again. I hope you know it’s true.

I just keep saying quietly, “I’ll be home soon.”