Each day is further away from the last time I held him in my arms, wrapped in a towel and my pink sweater. I have to scroll back longer to get to pictures of him on my phone or hear his crackly voice in video. My memories play on loop like an vinyl record with no end. An infinite slideshow projected in my mind of his dark, black pupils. There are mornings I open my eyes and forget he’s gone; expect him to be sleeping on my hair, paw across my forehead, fuzzy belly up towards the sky. Then I remember and it feels like turbulence on a plane when it suddenly drops hundreds of feet and your stomach plummets towards land, you’re clenching the arm rest, arduous breathing. It hits me that he’s not physically here with me; it still feels like falling and falling.
The day he left, I whispered to him in his carrier: “I can let you go if you need to go, I can let you go.” I was lying, of course. I wasn’t ready, are you ever though? How do you say goodbye to your soul?
to live in this world
you must be able to do three things to love what is mortal; to hold it
against your bones knowing your own life depends on it; and, when the time comes to let it go, to let it go
(Mary Oliver)
The breaks in my heart are mending slowly, a sort of spiritual kintsugi; cracks filled by love from friends and of Lucy. What once felt like an unendurable loss has tempered to a more manageable mourning. There hasn’t been one day where I don’t think about him and miss him. I’m doubtful that’ll ever change but why does it need to? Because he still exists as long as I’m around to remember him; in remembrance he’s with us, with me, with Lucy.
Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the day time, and falling into at night. I miss you like hell.
I’m a vivid dreamer, in general, and often remember my dreams or, at the very least, how they felt once I wake up. Last night, in my dream, I was in my bedroom at my parent’s old house but it was still decorated and painted from when I lived there; it was splattered bright Smurf blue, the bed was in the corner, a desk in front of the window, and the closet hung clothes and hid a tv.
There was an elephant in the room with us. Not a miniature elephant but a life-sized elephant that somehow also fit under the bed? And the elephant would go from under the bed to under the covers to standing on top of the comforter on the bed. And then back under the bed. I wasn’t scared or surprised by the elephant, only amused by its presence.
And Linus was there. Sometimes he was under the bed next to the elephant (who stood this whole time, never flopping to its side or resting). Sometimes Linus was at the window, taking in the sunshine and watching traffic. Sometimes he was hiding in this blanket/pillow fort I’d made him. I kept watching the elephant to make sure they knew that he was there and wouldn’t step on him. Wherever Linus was, I sat across from him, watching him in adoration and smiling at his handsome face. I remember petting him and laughing at his goofiness and the general absurdity of it all. He moved from window to under the bed to on top of the bed; this went on for a while.
I was somewhat conscious in a way that, as it happened, I knew this dream was ludicrous because why would there be an elephant in my room? And why would the elephant be not only real but also its actual size and at the same time fit under the bed? When did I not have things shoved under the bed? Where was everyone else? Linus wouldn’t even be born for another 8yrs after I moved out of that bedroom.
And still, I wanted to stay in that dream. I didn’t feel scared or anxious. I remember feeling cheerful, captivated, tickled. I wanted to stay and did for as long as I could. I fiercely fought the urge to come out of the dream.
Eventually, I had to go to the bathroom and when I woke up I felt Lucy next to me. I turned on her heated blanket, gave her a pat on the head and said, “We saw your brother tonight.”
In my dream, Linus seemed relaxed and playful. I remember feeling calm while watching him; that he was at ease, that he wasn’t suffering, that he didn’t mind I was there because I struggle with this idea that he’s angry with me for what I did. He didn’t seem upset though and I was relieved. I went back to sleep and wished he’d reappear but I don’t recall the rest of my dreams. It’s okay though because I remember that one.
And it got me thinking of Roy Orbison’s, “In Dreams”
A candy-colored clown they call the sandman Tiptoes to my room every night Just to sprinkle stardust and to whisper Go to sleep, everything is alright I close my eyes then I drift away Into the magic night, I softly say A silent prayer like dreamers do Then I fall asleep to dream my dreams of you In dreams I walk with you In dreams I talk to you In dreams you’re mine all of the time We’re together in dreams, in dreams But just before the dawn I awake and find you gone I can’t help it I can’t help it If I cry I remember that you said goodbye It’s too bad that all these things Can only happen in my dreams Only in dreams In beautiful dreams
Last year I wasn’t ready to set up an ofrenda for Linus but this year I felt called to ask for him to visit me. Last year at this time I didn’t want to live without him, didn’t want to be alive at all; it’s a little better now. Sometimes he appears in my dreams and I am overjoyed by that gift. I hope that he comes to see us and accepts my offering of his favorite toys and his favorite snack, tortilla chips. I’ve lit the way for him to find us.
To fashion an inner story of our pain carries us into the heart of it, which is where rebirth inevitably occurs.
-Sue Monk Kidd
Unlike his passing, I knew this day was coming. The seasons have changed, milestones have come and gone: the first Halloween without matching costumes, the first solo Christmas card, the first birthday they didn’t celebrate together, and now, the first year without him.
One entire year without Linus.
Over 14 years, I’d preemptively mourned Lucy a dozen times: from her surgeries and procedures to treatments and medication. She was always my sickly little kitten. Never once during that time had I considered losing Linus and then the first time that I ever really had to, I did. I lost him over just a few days. I didn’t know what to do or not do because it all happened so quickly, there were questions I hadn’t even thought to ask.
I’ve wondered for weeks leading up to this date about what I should write, what could I say that hasn’t already been said? I learned in the process of coming to terms with his death that there are still things we can share more openly about pet loss. I learned that we’re not prepared in a litany of ways on how to lose a loved one and pets are unique in their relationship to us and how we mourn them.
I asked myself, “What most do I want to share?”
First: grieve out loud.
This is important for a number of reasons, primarily because “healing is impossible in loneliness; it is the opposite of loneliness. Conviviality is healing. To be healed we must come with all the other creatures to the feast of Creation.” (Wendell Berry) In the depths of despair, it was friends who came to the forefront and held my hand as I waded through the murky waters. So many times I wanted to drown, they wouldn’t let me. This also highlighted for me that there are three kinds of people when it comes to pet loss: 1. those who cannot relate and utter something like, “they’re just an animal” 2. those who can’t relate but still sympathize and comfort you 3. those who can connect with your suffering and share stories of their own.
At first, I was outraged by the first group: how could they feel that way or, worse, say that out loud? To me? Until I realized how sad that was for them, to have never experienced such unconditional love. I’d be lying if I said those comments didn’t hurt though, especially coming from people who I thought understood me.
Moving past that, I relied on the people in my life to keep me alive.
All this to say: find others who understand. People who will tell you stories about how they hurt, too, and how they kept and keep going. Who will remind you to drink water, who will send you food so you don’t forget to eat, who will say things like, “You don’t have to reply but I want you to know I’m thinking about you” and “give Lucy baps from me.”
See, the “problem with death is absence” (Roger Rosenblatt) and 2,000,00 ‘miss yous will never bring them back. The absence, in turn, becomes another kind of presence that we carry with us. At first, it’s dark and heavy and sharp like a jagged black obsidian until it’s shaken up and chipped away to form smoother edges. Much like grief, the craggy bits will eventually reveal a more polished stone the more we tend to it. Friendships fill that absence and become buffers to those edges, they ease the anguish, they soften the hurt.
The sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open; this affliction and brood over in solitude.
-Washington Irving
Second, and more practically, following his loss some other things that I’ve found helped me weather the gale:
Took a few days off work, class, everything to just cry
I wrote him an obituary that I shared with anyone who knew him (vets, my therapists met him virtually) and friends/family
I signed up for grief groups (unfortunately they were all canceled but I know people have had great experiences with them) you can find some here: https://www.aplb.org/
I printed hundreds of pictures at Walgreens. I collected them from social media, email, my phone, and went out to get frames. This was nice because I was thoughtful and mindful about which pictures to put and where., sitting with his face and reminiscing
I wear a wavy ring that reminds me grief comes in waves
I wear a necklace with a L charm on it for him and Lucy
After many months of not having the will to live, I tried EMDR https://www.emdr.com/what-is-emdr/ and it helped so much. In fact, the same night as my first session, Linus appeared to me in a dream and it changed everything going forward
I journal and write monthly memorial posts about him
I made Tiktoks that helped me. It was therapeutic to find video and images to set against background music and cry it out
I set up an alter for him. I have his ashes with me. I know there are different feelings about this but I want him with me. Home, for him, has always been me and Lucy
Friends sent me art and all different kinds of special pieces to add to the alter and throughout my house. I love looking at them
Sometimes I talk to him, whether in my head or out loud to his things
I saved his favorite toys and put them on his alter
I attended this webinar, you can purchase the recording here: Anticipatory Grief
I haven’t done anything with his ashes or fur yet but want to
I needed action items, tasks, things to do to cope. I couldn’t speak his name for months, as if speaking his name would bring back the unendurable grief, but there were other things I could try to ease the suffering.
At first we have no choice to think about the one we’ve lost. Then maybe one day we realize an hour has passed without thinking of them, maybe a day. Afraid that with time we’ll lose the intensity of the grief, which will lose the intensity of the love; ceasing to mourn would be like ending our love. We conflate the two – that the amount and intensity with which we grieve is how deeply we loved. I worry I’ll forget his smell, softness, weight, purrs and that means I love him less. That is, of course, not true, and in that way I’m still learning about grief.
I write this as a rebirth and guide, a collection of things that have been shared with me the last year that helped.
After many months, and now one whole year, I have “begun to wake up in the morning with something besides dread in his heart. Not happiness exactly, not eagerness for the new day, but a kind of urge to be eager, a longing to be happy.”
The one year anniversary of the worst day of my life is coming up. I’ve dreamt of Linus twice in the last two weeks. I want to believe that he knows how hard it’ll be for me and has been appearing to reassure me.
– – –
Last night’s dream:
I came home. We’re out of the room. I’ve been doing so much traveling. I was on plane. I was on a train and I come into the living room and he’s there at the desk and I just squeeze and squeeze and squeeze him and hold him like he used to let me but grudgingly and I just sniff his warm fur and he doesn’t really try to escape that much. He kind of steps away and then back into my arms and I squeeze him some more And I’m just holding him and I’m sobbing and saying you’re here you’re here I love you. I’ve missed you Linus. You’re here. You’re really here. I can’t believe it. You’re here. You’re here. I love you. I miss you so much. Please don’t go away again please stay here. I love you.
Last week’s dream:
I dreamt of you last night you’re making biscuits on a pillow arms out stretched over the covers and you were purring and your eyes were closed. I came up to you and put my head in your big soft belly and inhaled your sweet fur, and I smiled because I knew it had been a long time since I’ve done this. Lucy was on the other side of the bed and we were all there and it had been a long time since it had been like that, I was so happy, and then I woke up in my dream and I realized I was only dreaming.
Maybe that won’t stand out to me as much after the first year or maybe it always will, who knows.
It’s been 11 months without him. I haven’t seen or heard him recently, he hasn’t been in my dreams. I miss him. Sometimes I even get angry with him for not staying longer or angry with myself for not doing more. It’s irrational but I guess that’s grief. There really isn’t much I wouldn’t do to have him back. And there isn’t a minute of the day I’m not thinking about him.
Last month I felt strong enough to donate his chaise. I brought it to the local cat cafe where kitties can use it and take fun pictures laying on it. When I went for a visit I saw that there was a banana on it. I teared up and took it as a sign that I’d made the right choice and he was happy other kitties could enjoy it now.My bond with Lucy is special and strong, she’s the best girl. Unfortunately, my anticipatory grief and anxiety are at an all time high. Leaving her is so hard because I’m afraid that I’ll lose her suddenly or I won’t spend all my time with her or, worse, she’ll pass when I’m not there. She’s perfectly healthy though and although there’s no reason to worry, I do.
It’s complicated and painful, something I wouldn’t wish on anyone.
It’s not that the grief gets ‘better’ just more tolerable; how much hurt can you hold today? Some days it’s debilitatingly more than others. Some days I drift off into a memory and shake my head to come out of it to get back to the present. How can I explain I was thinking of… a cat?
The first year of loss we go through these milestones. I thought he and Lucy would have 17, 18 birthdays together but just two months after their 14th he was gone. And she’s been alone but she’s thriving.
Half my heart is with me, earthside. My other half has made a couple of visits and for that I’m so grateful. Lucy and I are listening.
It’s the 25th of the month, eight months since he left.
Things have started coming together in big and small ways; I’m grateful to notice that and appreciate how hard I’ve worked hard to cultivate the good and how important relationships have been in enduring.
But not a minute goes by that I’m not missing him.
“Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss…Grief is different. Grief has no distance. Grief comes in waves, paroxysms, sudden apprehensions that weaken the knees and blind the eyes and obliterate the dailiness of life.” (Joan Didion)
I “woke up” and felt Lucy in the crook of my elbow, looked over and saw him staring at me wide eyed and waiting. (Like the picture) he’d do this sometimes with his big saucer eyes, a little unnerving when I couldn’t figure out what he wanted but ultimately funny. Unlike Lucy who paws at me for attention, Linus would mostly stare while I ran through a litany of his needs until I found the correct answer. Usually he wanted more food or behind the ear scritches.
In the dream, he was looking at me and I was confused. I closed my eyes (in my dream but I thought I was awake), and shook my head to gain clarity. When I “opened” them again he was still there looking. That’s when I realized he was visiting me. I said “Linus” and smiled. I watched him for awhile. He slow blinked and I smiled and smiled.
At some point I went back to sleep in my dream.
Last week I asked him to visit. I’m so happy he heard me.
The EMDR session helped: it opened up room to alternative narratives. It helped me get closer to accepting this new reality.
“No one ever told me how sorrow traumatizes your heart, making you think it will never beat exactly the same way again. No one ever told me how grief feels like a wet sock in my mouth. One I’m forced to breathe through, thinking that with each breath I’ll come up short and suffocate.”
― Sarah Noffke
Shortly after, he visited my dreams and made another appearance in the kitchen. And so every day I whisper, “Come back. Even as a shadow, even as a dream”
(Euripides).
I can’t say his name without tearing up and still cry everyday. Some days are harder than others. I’d do anything to have him back. It’s been seven, long months.
I just heard Linus. Two raspy meows coming from the kitchen.
I’m in the bedroom watching Gilmore girls when I heard him. I sat right up and looked around, so startled because it was him, like he was just a few feet away yelling at me because he wanted more food or to go outside or something. It was him.
I said hi and that I love him and miss him and it’s been so hard without him and that I hope he’s not mad at me and I hope he keeps visiting.
Six months without him. Half a year since I said goodbye and he left me. The hardest day, the worst days.
His visit in my dream helped me so much though and for the first time today I looked at his altar and smiled. It was such a gift to be with him again, if only in my dreams.
Lucy continues to be my biggest support and I wouldn’t still be here if not for her.
He hadn’t appeared to me yet but I kept waiting, asking. In the dream, my parents and I are in my old condo – they’re rummaging through the other rooms, not sure what they were doing.
Linus and I are in the dining room, he’s on the table runner on the wooden Ikea table head butting my arms, licking my hand, pawing at me to come back if I step too far away. I’m petting him and give him the best chin rubs, the ones where you smush his jaw up to his ear. He’s drooling. His eyes are closed and it looks like he’s smiling, in heaven. I sneak in a belly rub, flub flub. I don’t scoop him up to hold him for some reason but give him big hugs at the table. I’m engulfing him completely and squeezing him, lots of kisses on his head. He’s not running away.
At some points my parents are watching us but they’re not sure what I’m doing, nothing is there. There’s no one there, what am I doing? I think maybe they’re saying things? But I can’t hear them, I don’t understand.
Because I’m holding Linus, he’s in the crooks of my elbows, can’t they see him? I can feel him purring. I can feel his warmth and soft fur. His big eyes look up at me as he headbutts my chin. He’s going back and forth along the shorter side of the table soaking up all the love.
How can they not see him? He’s here and I don’t think he’s mad at me. I think he was happy to see me and be with me.
Why would he be mad at me? Because I killed him. (I didn’t, he was suffering and in pain.)
I burned his body and turned him to ashes.
Maybe he wasn’t ready and didn’t know what was happening. I couldn’t tell him why I made that decision. He didn’t understand. (He was ready, I wasn’t ready.)
I took everything he loved away from him. (I gave him peace.)
I only want to be with him and where he is. (I owe it to him and myself and Lucy to keep living. I’ll be with him again someday.)
I failed him as a cat mom, I could have done more, I didn’t keep him alive. (I did the best I could, I tried.)
Maybe he does know how much I loved him and how much I miss him and I did what I thought was the best.
(Pictured: Linus on the table, pawing at me for attention)
It’s almost six months following his death and every day I look at his pictures or paintings and think:
I killed him I burned him I made his fur and bones into ash if I add water can I create clay and bring him back to life or maybe the dust he’ll reappear like a genie or in the mummy movie or something. Maybe there’s a spell or if I wish hard enough or maybe there’s something out there to bring him back from the dead. Some days I even find myself touching the box of his remains and snatching my hand away to break my fixation w these repetitive thoughts. I just want him back. I just want to bring him back. I know I can’t but maybe. Maybe if I try something. Maybe I could. Is there something I could try. There has to be. I took so much away fromhim, everything he loves like cuddles and crunchies and couch. I took those things away. I took him away. I can’t live without him and this pin isn’t bearable there has to be something to make it stop. Why did I kill him. I miss him so much. I can’t even say his name.There isn’t a minute in the day I’m not thinking about him, I’m constantly on the verge of tears. Everyday is a master class in acting; where’s my golden globe?
I know grief isn’t linear and there’s no “normal.” I’ve read many books, I have his alter, and other tributes. Right now nothing seems to ease the ache though. It hurts a lot though and hoping maybe the counselor can help a little.
I only started making one a few years ago: 2022 – many visions came to life! In 2023 I added bigger goals and dreams. I was on a roll, an upswing, things were finally coming together as is the cyclical nature of life; reading enough Pema Chödrön has taught me that. I knew to relish every joyous moment because at any moment things could fall apart. What I didn’t know was how severe the break could be. The first six months of 2023 were a beautiful dream and then it just… imploded.
Suddenly, only pain.
I’ll find my way through another layoff, find another job to pay the bills. Surgery hurt me financially, physically, and psychologically but I’ll get past that too. Losing Linus though – how many candles do I need to light the way through this loss? What is the length of a tear? Wendell Berry believes “that grief passes away. It has its time and place forever. More time is added to it; it becomes a story within a story. But grief and griever alike endure.”
So I begin 2024 because I have to but my heart isn’t in it.
The necklace I’m wearing in the pics is a gift from a friend. It’s a beautiful locket with a picture of Linus and the words: “if love could have saved you, you would have lived forever”
He was there with us a little bit for the first holiday pics with just two of us.
I miss Linus so much. I’m so sad. I cry every day, usually log off of work and just go to bed and cry. I haven’t laid on the couch since July and with the exception of sitting on the edge of the couch the night before my surgery, that entire side of the couch has been untouched. My space has gotten so small. I try to do things that I normally enjoy (yoga, read, thrift, hike) hoping that I can fake it until I make it and just keep going through this, keep some momentum but everything is mostly a distraction. That is when I’m not zoned out, eating and scrolling through sites or rewatching shows. At my part time job I put on an act and be nice, then immediately check out when I leave. I’ll do something one or two times and lose motivation, I don’t want to go anywhere or see anyone. I don’t want to do anything. I have nothing to look forward to. I have no reason to live. I don’t want to be here.
I’m sure surgery didn’t help at all. And then I’m riddled w guilt bc as I type this Lucy is pawing at me for pets. I love her so much too, it’s just different. And ashamed bc of the state of the world and I’m crying about my cat, debilitated by his passing when I have so much privilege and access and can be doing good things. Instead I’m wasting away in hurt.
I’ve been having some really whacky, unhinged and often upsetting dreams the last few weeks. This morning I woke up crying for Linus and even patting the bed while I called out for him. But he’s not here. And he’ll never be here again and I’m having such a hard time coming to terms with that.
“If all else perished, and he remained, I should still continue to be; and if all else remained, and he were annihilated, the universe would turn to a mighty stranger.”― Emily Jane Brontë , Wuthering Heights
A friend got me this beautiful painting of Linus. I put it next to the bed bc Linus and I had a very solid bedtime ritual, that’s when I miss him the most. The artistDilly Dally Studios really nailed his little chin and big eyes.
Two months.
It’s been two months since he left me.
I’ve been paralyzed by depression, in the throes of panic attacks, and suicidal but nothing could have prepared me for the immense sadness and hopelessness that’s come with his loss.
It feels like walking through life with a filter on, everything muted and in the wrong color. There’s a dimness to each day, interrupted by brief moments of something that doesn’t feel like grief, and then am quickly consumed again. I’m no longer comatose like the first week he left but still cry everyday and most days I can’t even say his name. I guess I thought that it wouldn’t feel so bad two months later but the house seems to be getting bigger and bigger.
“Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.”
Last year I booked a dream trip for the end of August: four days hiking through Olympic National Park and then three days kayaking the San Juan Islands. I’d been checking the website for summer dates to be released and was the first person to sign up for both trips through the company I’d used many times before. They were tickled by my enthusiasm. And I was so proud of myself for being in a place, financially, where I could plan trips far out and leave deposits. I still hadn’t built up savings or an emergency fund but I could take a trip, that was a big deal.
And then in March Linus got sick. He seemed to got better but the (financial) damage was done so, through tears, I wrote them explaining that I had to cancel my trip.
A month later, there was an opportunity to book the Twilight house and I thought, “okay this could be my chance to get back to the PNW this year.” I scored three nights at Bella’s house over my birthday weekend in October during Halloween month in Halloweentown in the PNW during fall. What. A. Dream.
And then in July linus got sick. He did not get better. And so, through tears, I wrote them explaining that I had to cancel my trip. Later, friends () helped cover that financial burden.
I guess this is all to say that I miss him. And I should be in Washington and he should be here.
I took this picture on the parkway today and it made me feel like I was in Olympic. I’m sad about not taking any trips this year but infinitely more sad about the reason why. I’d give up a lifetime of trips to have him back.
It’s been one month. Every day that’s gone by has felt like a lifetime and then suddenly it’s one month. There have been plenty of moments I haven’t even wanted to be alive. Still not able to look back w love and joy, only grief and mourning but I know it won’t be that way always. Nights are the hardest. Haven’t gotten on the couch in a month. Maybe some day.
I wonder if I killed him by moving to the mountains last year. He was so healthy in NJ and as soon as we got here he dealt with allergies, hot spots, ear infection. Then this year it was just one thing after another: kidney infection, mysterious mass, kidney disease, more allergies, heart disease, floating fluid, hyperthyroidism, elevated this, low that. I wonder if I made the wrong choice by moving here and it’s my fault he’s not alive. He didn’t get outside time here or sunshine. I couldn’t open the windows for fresh air bc everyone has allergies. Things had gotten so much better for me since moving to NC but worse for him and now he’s not here at all and I can’t go back and do it over.
Currently every seat on the struggle bus is occupied… by me bc oh the struggle has been real the last few days. I think maybe I thought that (say that 5x fast) that I survived the week following the heartbreak and went back to work (at both jobs) so I was doing okay. I’m not okay. And I know grief isn’t linear, waves. Right now it feels like I’ve sprained my ankle, stayed off it for two weeks, RICE, and did everything I’m “supposed” to then a small slip (a video, a memory, a comment) becomes the catalyst for a tumble and refracture. Back to the beginning. Feels like the first day all over again. My meds that work so well to quell my panic attacks are barely tempering the onslaught tonight/this weekend . Snot, sobs, frantic breaths and choking. I wish we had more time.
I’ve read about grief. I’ve heard about it. I’ve witnessed it and sympathized with others. Until this last week, I didn’t fully understand that people feel ashamed to openly grieve the loss of pets. Some people have to do this all alone bc they’re made to feel bad about their grief? I can’t fathom that. I mean – I knew this, that it’s not socially acceptable to mourn their loss in the way we mourn other family members, but this group has shown me that’s there’s literally no other way to be and I think that’s awesome.
Thank you for letting me grieve out loud. It’s really been helping.
Linus has been gone one week now. I’ll tell you how I decided to let him go –
I’d never given much thought to how he’d die. I figured they’d leave me in a few years, around 18. This was the number I had in my head. I told myself that I’d live here, in Asheville, until they passed because I didn’t want to put them through yet another move. Once they were gone, I’d move to Dingle or Porto or Bainbridge Island. I still might, who knows.
After spending the weekend in the hospital, on Monday afternoon he was well enough to come home. The specialist gave me antibiotics, we scheduled a follow-up, and I was to monitor him. As we waited for his discharge paperwork, he headbutted me, purred, licked my forehead. I suspect now it was the gabapentin working because as soon we got home and I opened the carrier, he went right back to hiding under the bed. But unlike a few days before, he didn’t come out for treats, he didn’t come when I called, he wouldn’t crawl to my hand for neck scritches. I watched him obsessively and barely slept, calling him throughout the night hoping desperately he’d crawl into the nook in my neck.
Before I went to bed I took a picture of his food bowl to see if he’d eaten any in the morning. When I woke, he was still under the bed but a few minutes later got to the litterbox and had diarrhea, couldn’t make it all the way so it sort of dribbled outside and on him. I called the vet right away. It was an enormous feat to get him out from under the bed (think lifting the mattress above me); I put him in his carrier and took him back to the hospital, knowing there’d be a long wait.
On the way there he threw up and it had some blood in it. He couldn’t hold his bowels and urinated in the carrier, things he’d never done before – not even when we flew, all the hours we’ve driven, never. If you’ve ever met Linus you know how soft he was, how good he smelled so for him to be sitting in his own diarrhea was heartbreaking to witness. At some point, they came to get him and cleaned him up a bit. I chatted with the tech then continued to wait with him. I pet him and told him how much I love him. Finally, we went to a room where we met with the ER vet.
Since November of last year Linus had been dealing with a number of issues. He got some meds, changed foods, started atopica and seemed to be doing well. Then in March I noticed dramatic weight loss and he was slammed with a litany of issues – pancreatitis, kidney infection, liquid in the abdomen, mass on his kidney, heart disease, and more.
Since then we’d done every diagnostic test possible short of a biopsy on the nodule on his liver. At 14 and with heart disease, I wasn’t going to open him up for that. To find what? That it’s cancer and then? Remove it, chemo? Remove a kidney and hope the other would sustain him? Hoping he wouldn’t go into kidney failure. He’d never even been under anesthesia. And following a major surgery he’d be miserable during recovery and being medicated. I couldn’t do that to him.
I could have left him there with an IV and see how he progressed, maybe he’d improve. They could have inserted a feeding tube, maybe he’d improve. Maybe, maybe, maybe. There were no definitive solutions because there was no obvious reason for what was causing him to be so unwell. There was nothing to keep him alive that wouldn’t have been selfish of me to do.
Because I know Linus. I know how unhappy and scared he’d been going back and forth to the vet, how he’d cower from me and hide. How long it took him to bounce back from each visit. How much he hated taking meds.
When I presented the option of euthanasia, she said it’s something we could consider but she wanted to check with his specialist first. I waited and waited, trying to understand the weight of what I’d decided, something I hadn’t seriously considered until that morning. All our family pets passed at home, I’ve never had to make the decision.
I had the okituary ready because from deciding to let him go to last breath it was a couple of hours. Writing it gave me something to do while I waited for them to bring him back to me. It was a small room, the same one I’d visited him a few days before.
They were so gentle with him. He was wrapped up and I held him like a baby. I kissed between his eyes and top of his head. I kissed his little black toe beans. I stroked his whiskers and gave him a good chin rub. When it was time, the doctor came back and explained what would happen. I looked in his eyes the entire time, he was gone quickly. A little breath welcomed a long sleep.
I held him a bit longer and cried. On a random Tuesday in July I said goodbye to my soul cat. I know I did the right thing by him but never thought I’d have to make it so soon and so suddenly.
I finally made dinner on this side of the island. Lucy also came into the kitchen. After she ate she sat on the carpet staring at me. Is she in this spot bc it was his spot? Or is she in this spot bc it used to always be occupied and now isn’t? Both?
I don’t know but she’s freaking me out today. Plus the dragonfly and butterfly that each almost flew into my face. Weird day.
It was okay. I read the book someone gave me on pet loss and listened to a podcast someone recommended on losing a pet. When I opened the door to my apartment I was heartbroken that Linus didn’t run to greet me. I double checked but he didn’t come out from my bedroom or narwhal. I remembered why he couldn’t and it hurt. Then I looked for Lucy in her 6-8 usual spots, even hesitantly opening the closet door hoping I wouldn’t find her on his bed. She wasn’t there either so I started to panic a little until I went over to the windows.
I had tossed some of these beds in the corner because they were his and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to donate them or what. (And, listen, Lucy has SO MANY beds that I thought I’d pass these on to other kitties). The grey one is especially tough to look at since that’s where he spent most of his time when he got sick. They’re hidden behind the couch and I can’t even see them but something told me to lift the beige bed and sure enough, there she was. I haven’t laughed or smiled much in the last week but this tickled me.
My heart sunk and my stomach did flips when I heard a thump and looked over to see Lucita.
He and I had a ritual where he’d creep along the windows until he reached the desk. I’d groan about it but he’d find his space to my left where I’d stick my head in his soft furry belly and he’d kiss my forehead with that sandpaper tongue. I’m glad I have so many videos of us doing that silly thing.
Lucy jumped on the bathroom counter to drink from the sink – a first since Monday.
I went to the pool. She sat on his chaise.
I
moved my body by wandering Home Goods for a hour. Jk. Sort of. I really did go bc last week I bought a new calendar and filled it with appts, medication schedules, etc. I had to toss it and get a new one. Also picked up some new hair clips and a surprise for Lucylu.
I felt guilty leaving her alone so long but she seemed okay when I got back.
In her I see my own progress reflected and that motivates me to not live in the sadness. More than her own grief for his absence, I think she’s grieving for me.
Today little Lucita (who’s not so little anymore) slept, albeit briefly, in a spot other than my bed. It also happens to be one of his spots (she’d take the bottom ‘bunk’).
She’s still only eating when I’m in the kitchen with her so I have to get up often to be with her there. Otherwise she’s w me in bed and usually under the covers.
On the third day I brought my sweet baby bunny bear boy home.
I left the house today. Technically, I left more than a dozen times. Each time I closed and locked the door, I immediately went back and looked for him to greet me; to come running from the narwhal bed or the pink carpet. His belly swaying side to side and then me scooping him up like a baby and blowing raspberries in his belly and kissing his snaggletooth. He tolerated it, hooking claws into my hair each time and I’d laugh. I miss that.
Each time I closed and locked the door, I walked a little further away. Then turned around and pretended like I was coming home, but he wasn’t there. Closed and locked the door, walked out and down the stairs then came back and opened up, looking for him. I did this a dozen times to desensitize myself to this act before I made it to the car.
And in this way I left the apartment to pick him up. I didn’t think I’d go back there so soon but they called this morning with the news. Maybe it’s better this way.
When I was younger and spent the summers in Algarve with my grandparents, I’d often walk my Avó to the water.
She couldn’t walk very well so she’d use one of us for support. To my right, her left arm hooked around my elbow, we’d hobble to the water together, while commenting on the sun and waves. She’d dip her toes and slowly walk in, pausing at her calves, shins, knees to take in the cold water and shuddering. Usually, she’d stop mid thigh, when she could reach the water with her hand. She’d scoop up the chilly ocean and toss it over each shoulder. She’d pat some on her chest and arms, ask me to touch her back with my cold hand. Slow, gradual, exposure at her pace. When she was ready, I’d walk her back to the shore and ask her to wait right there for me. Turning away from her, I’d run in and plunge into the freezing water. After the initial shock of the plunge, I’d come up smiling and refreshed. My grandma watching the whole time.
Today I took small steps towards the water, inching ever closer and also plunged into the dark, chilly waters. And this is how it’ll be on the shores of grief; some days I’ll go in the water and other days not. Some days I’ll gaze out to the horizon and some days I’ll nap in the shade. But here I am and here he is, with us.
I keep thinking of Linus hiding under the bed beginning Friday and then having to drag him out Monday to take him back to the hospital. Our last sleep together, Thursday night. Friday and then Monday night, when he was home, he hid under the bed. I had no idea what was coming. I could never have imagined. I keep looking for him there in the corner and on the grey bed next to the storage boxes. He didn’t come out for food or when I called. He didn’t come up on the bed for cuddles when it was bedtime. So yesterday I moved my bed to the center of the room for the first time since I’ve lived here. It was actually a sigh of relief. I ordered a headboard and might move around more furniture. My apartment is small though, it’s hard to not see him everywhere.
Two days without him.
A lot of you have been asking about Lucy –
She won’t leave my side (well, more than usual) and is always touching me. She’s eating less and only going to her feeder when I’m in the kitchen so I try to get up to get water or a snack, make sure she goes with me. She doesn’t leave the bed. I noticed that overnight she played with some toys. She’s been using the litter box. Lucy let’s me cry into her fur. I can’t tell if she realizes he’s gone or just knows I’m hurting so much, maybe both. I’ve never lost a pet or have anything to compare this to and even though she was a little witch at times, he was a constant presence in her life.
I picked her up and held her like a baby and that was hard bc l hasn’t done that since Tuesday w him. I always thought I’d have to say goodbye to her first. I was so unprepared.
Lucy hasn’t left my side. She doesn’t eat or drink unless I’m in the kitchen or living room (she did eat overnight and play and use the litter box). She hasn’t gone to her little cubby or donut bed or narwhal bed. She’s such a sweet baby girl. We both feel very, very loved.
I “slept” 12 hours and woke up to the entire hospital bill is paid off. I even have enough to pay for some of the family vet bill too.
On top of the absolute shock of Linus’ sudden passing, I was flabbergasted with how I’d pay the $3,500 hospital bill. Thankful for Care credit to help in the moment.
This helps ease the pain a little bit. And Lucy, too. She hasn’t left my side. People have dropped off food, sent flowers, so sweet. Where can I get a defibrillator, though?
I made a little memorial for Linus. It hurts to type or say his name. I’m calling out for him, using all his nicknames, and he doesn’t appear. I’m looking under the bed, in little cubbies, everywhere for him, but can’t find him.
He got sick on Friday, by Saturday he was in the hospital, stayed 3 days and was better so I brought him home. Maybe he needed to say goodbye to his things and Lucy. She didn’t even hiss at him or attack when he got out of the carrier. On Tuesday he was gone.
I am okay w my decision to let him go and happy we got to make it together. He told me, I listened, and I held him until his last breath. I told him how much I love him, how happy he’s made me, how much I’ll miss him. I rubbed my face in his fuzzy belly and kissed his forehead.
I think I will ask god why for the rest of my life And never will I come to understand it Even if god himself came in front of me and told me the reason I don’t think I will accept it Some loves are too hard to bear And with great love comes great pain And with great loss comes the greatest pain of all If love could have saved you, you would have lived forever -Havva Ramadan
Sorry for not answering calls, texts, messages. Thank you for all the kind words and love.
I am home, with Lucy, who doesn’t seem to realize/notice her brother is gone. I am not okay. I have off work the next few days.
I keep calling out for him but he’s not here anymore. I have never done this before and with how sudden it all was, I have no idea how to navigate this kind of loss.
Thank you. I had some water and food.
Here’s the Winnie the Pooh from his obit.
Some are asking for ways to help me:
Bring Linus back
Hug your pets extra
Suggestions on how to memorialize him
Suggestions on how to grieve
Donations to Sister Kitten here in Asheville
Donations to me this whole ordeal cost $3,500
Lots of thoughts and feels. I’m absolutely gutted and in shock. I’m just trying to remember to breathe and not bother the neighbors w my cryscreams.
Linus Manuel Lopes passed away peacefully in my arms today, July 25, at 12:32pm after a short illness; he was 14.
Born under a lawnmower in Lake Hiawatha, NJ on or around May 25, 2009, he and his sister Lucy are the only survivors of their litter. Despite a precarious start at life, Linus’ appetite for food and affection was clear at a young age, up until his final days.
For a cat – Linus was well traveled, having spent some of his years in Massachusetts, Nevada, New Jersey, and his final resting place – North Carolina. He took each move surprisingly well, settling in as soon as he realized mom was there and she had the cromnchies. Although on a prescription diet the last couple of years of his life, Linus enjoyed tortilla chips, bagels, toast, basically any carb. (Just like mom.)
In addition to food, he enjoyed supervised outside time – not on a leash as he would flop over and play possum – but on the balcony, in the sun. He loved water dripping from the sink, unmade beds, hiding remotes under his belly, luxurious fuzzy fleece blankets, and squishing couch cushions. He loved catnip, especially those bananas and any YEOW toy. He loved felt wands, especially a rainbow one that followed him all over the country. His favorite, though, was a Winnie the Pooh dressed as a butterfly miniature figurine that mom won from a .25 cent machine almost 10yrs ago.
Linus was slow to warm up to you but once he found you agreeable, he’d happily lay on your chest, butt in your face. At his heaviest, that would have been a whopping 19lbs but he’s slimmed down over the years. He loved chin rubs and behind the ear scritches, the really good ones that made him drool.
Linus did NOT like belly rubs or dressing up but tolerated both because they made mom so happy. He didn’t like being picked up or taking selfies either but, again, anything for mom. He also didn’t like taking meds or seeing the vet and, until recently, he’d never spent more than an hour per visit. Because of his lack of exposure, it took him a little while to bounce back from each visit but he could only hold a grudge for so long before moseying over for headbutts and scratchy tongue kisses. He was unconditional love.
Linus tolerated his sister, Lucy. He was never a fan of cuddling with her but would occasionally put up with it when he was sure she wouldn’t attack him. Her mood swings confused him and he remained wary unless they were both asleep on mom.
Not a day went by that he didn’t make his mom laugh at his goofiness and shenanigans. His big pupils caught your attention but his warmth is what kept you close. His soft fur, raspy meow, and big purrs won over everyone who met him. And even those who never got a chance to meet him in person, Linus was loved by so many.
His sudden loss is a devastating one.
He is survived by his sister, Lucy, and mom, Ines.
this whole ordeal cost $3,500 
Loving and Losing Linus 