The Grief I Deserved

I used to low-key judge 'pet people'.

When a coworker would call out or leave early, crying because their pet was dying or needed surgery, I’d be sympathetic, of course.

But on the inside I was thinking it's just an animal; it ain't that deep.

In my defense, I'd never really experienced pet death before. I did have a cat die when I was a kid, but there was already so much else happening that I never really grieved her.

Anyway, when I met my husband, The Balkan Storm, we were firmly on the same page. "I don’t want any more pets, I don’t want any more kids, and I don’t want a white-picket-fence-meatloaf-every-Sunday life,“ he said.

Amen, I thought. Where do I sign?

Fast-forward to today: We have all of that shit now (and I mean that with all the love in the world)

When our daughter was in high school, he surprised me with, "I’m ready for another dog.” This, from a man who’d spoken about his last one with the kind of reverence usually reserved for brothers in arms.

After swearing for years he couldn't go through the pain of losing a dog again, we explored shelters and animal rescues and soon after, came home with Nala; half-husky, half-terrier, full-on allergic to everything.

Seriously—this is a dog on organic food, special shots, the whole shebang, and she still drops gas that can make your eyes water. We’ve tried everything. Nothing helps.

She was our only pet for many years.

Until Molly.

My brother-in-law died tragically after years of addiction. They found his body in his apartment after a welfare check, but there was no sign of his precious Molly.

She was eventually found cowering behind a toilet, terrified as strangers trickled in and out of the apartment.

Naturally, my mother-in-law in PA wanted her as one last connection to her son, but before we could get Molly to her, we learned my mother-in-law had late-stage cancer.

She passed away soon after her diagnosis, and Molly was now ours.

And Molly had plenty of reasons to be wary; my brother-in-law loved her, no doubt, but he was barely taking care of himself as it was.

The day we made the 7-hour trek to Kentucky to collect her, she was filthy, matted, hungry, and scared. She didn’t scratch or bite, but she made it clear from the jump that her trust would not come easy.

That first night, we stayed at a hotel to rest up for the drive back the next morning. The Storm and I sat on the bathroom floor with her, letting her skulk around and "learn us" as Google had suggested.

So for a while we just talked softly to her, let her sniff us and watch us and all that jazz. Once we went to bed, she was not happy about being confined to the bathroom, and not shy about letting us know.

Desperate for sleep, we relented and let her explore the room, where after about two minutes she hopped up on a windowsill, content to watch the world.

She demanded breakfast at "that-damn-cat" o'clock the next morning. Sleep deprivation can make you say some terrible shit about someone you just met, can't it?

After plenty of coffee, we tried to drive Molly home in a crate like responsible adults, but she Houdini'd her way out of that crate twice before we'd even gotten on the interstate.

So we gave up, and she curled up under my legs for the seven-hour drive. That was Molly in a nutshell: ever-suspicious, ever-curious, and ever-determined to do things her way.

At the time, we were empty nesters, and I worked from home. So I gave her plenty of space; I just fed her, said hello, let her be, and went about my day.

One day I realized she was following me around.

Soon she was everywhere, threading herself around my ankles or curling up at my feet while I worked, taking in her new environment.

And then one night, she shocked me by jumping into my lap and curling up for a nap. From that moment on, she was mine.

I say that because she tolerated my husband, bless his heart (I think all the sneezing had something to do with it...and between us, why do all dads sneeze like they're being exorcised?).

But she kept everyone else at bay.

Nala, bless her gentle heart, wanted to be friends, but Molly would hiss at her like it was her job.

Nala would retreat, dejected, which broke my heart.

So for a while I was that woman - you know, the one with the mean cat that everyone hates? Yeah, that was us.

Molly was a fat, grumpy mess who destroyed furniture and woke me at 5 a.m. sharp, demanding food like the kibble already in her bowl was beneath her.

She was also annoyingly smart. If I ignored her, she’d shimmy under my bed and push with all she had. And she was a big’un, so my bed vibrated like a tuning fork.

My daily wake-up call was: "I own you."

And she did.

She loved open windows.

Even in winter, if the sun was hitting just right, she’d wedge her fat butt into the sill and zone out for hours.

At night, she’d sleep on the floor by my side of the bed, but every chance she could (especially when my husband was away on business), she’d jump into bed with me like she was entitled to that spot.

And I’d sigh, knowing I’d have to wash everything before he got back because of his allergies, but I let her stay anyway.

She'd act pretty smug about it, too.

She’d only sit on my lap if we were alone. If anyone walked in, she’d leap off like no one can ever see me be loving!

And she'd grind her teeth all the time, making this little sound you could only hear when it was really quiet. Like tinnitus, but weirder.

For all her quirks, she was strangely healthy until one day she just...stopped eating.

The vet said her liver was failing, but they didn’t know why. It was already looking very dire for her.

I asked the vet what she would do if it were her cat. “Get her tested,” she said.

Hindsight is always 20:20 - I should've just taken her home. I felt it in my gut when the vet ended with a heartfelt “I’m so sorry”.

I saw it in Molly's eyes when I got her back home. I heard it in the voice in my head: Take the pictures. Get the cuddles. This is it. This is the last time.

My husband and I had made an agreement years ago: when it came to pets, there could be no thousands-of-dollar maybes. We had responsibilities and budget limits.

But when push came to shove, there we were, in an emergency clinic 40 miles away, desperate for answers and signing away thousands of dollars to get them.

Nobody could tell us exactly what was wrong with her. Even worse, nobody could tell us whether another test would save her or not.

It was maddening; when you love someone that's dying, worrying about your budget in the moment feels particularly shitty.

I kept waiting for someone say, " It’s time. Instead, there was always one more thing we could try. And God, did I want to try it.

Maybe in another chapter of our lives, we could've kept going and pushed even further for answers.

But we had responsibilities and constraints that didn't care how much we desperately wanted to save our cat.

We were forced to ask ourselves if we were still doing this for Molly, or because we weren't ready to lose her.

So we brought her home, and she died in my arms just a few hours later.

Her death wasn’t peaceful or gentle like in the movies, where the pet just blinks slowly and peacefully slips away.

She vomited all over us. She seized and spasmed before she suddenly stretched to her full length like she was being electrocuted.

Then she relaxed and went quiet.

She was gone.

I've since learned that what I witnessed was just a reflex, a final misfiring of nerves that looks awful but isn’t conscious or painful.

But tell that to the person holding her when it happens.

The kids were with us while it happened, and I tried to hold it together. I didn't want to get emotional in front of them over a cat.

But the youngest wrinkled her nose as I cradled Molly, both of us soiled with her vomit. 

“Ew, that’s gross.”

She wasn't to be cruel; it was just her without a filter, as usual. But Jesus, did it hit me badly.

I sat on my kitchen floor with that dead cat in my arms and bawled.

There I was: one of those pet people.

Afterward, we wrapped Molly's body in a blanket and drove her back to that same hospital.

Forty-five minutes of silence, except for the sound of our own breaths as I held her in my lap, stroking her fur and whispering a thousand apologies she couldn’t hear.

I’m sorry I didn’t trust my gut.

I’m sorry I left you at the hospital.

I’m so sorry I let our hope take away your peace.

We handed her off to a sympathetic stranger in scrubs, but that place will always be the place where I lost her twice.

I’ll always regret that.

Every morning, like clockwork, Molly used to race down the stairs ahead of me and perch by her food bowl, making sure I opened her little tin of Fancy Feast before I even reached for a K-Cup.

She’d eat, and I’d sit next to her with my coffee. And when she finished, she’d curl up beside me, purring like an engine while I scrolled on my phone.

We did that every day for years.

That first morning after she was gone…no little face by my bed, no cuddling while I drank my coffee…it hurt.

I couldn’t even sit in our spot anymore. It felt so wrong that I got up and moved to the couch.

I’ve never sat in our spot since.

In the days that followed I bought her pawprint preserved in stone, a lock of fur, and a small urn in a velvet bag. All things I used to call a waste of money.

Yeah, I know, I’m a hypocrite.

It's already been suggested I get another cat, but I don’t want one. Not now, maybe not ever.

Molly’s death hit me like a truck.

Nala, on the other hand, could not have cared less.

Nala is a sweetheart of a dog who just intuitively knows when something's off. She'll sit next to you when you're sad, and rest her head on your knee like she understands.

So after Molly died, I was positive she’d be upset, sniff around Molly’s old spots, maybe whine a little.

Nope.

She slept like a log and farted through her day like she'd never even met the cat.

It was jarring, honestly. Like, damn, girl, she’s just…dead to you? Literally?

It also reminded me that someday, losing Nala will hurt me, too. She’s been here through every chapter of this crazy life of ours.

But she’s getting older now. Her face is aging. She moves slower and she sleeps longer.

I’m not ready to imagine the day she isn’t here to stand guard at the door or fart through a movie like a drunk uncle at Thanksgiving.

Quite a difference from someone who used to think it's just an animal; it ain't that deep.

So to anyone I ever silently judged for falling apart over a pet: I get it now.

I’m sorry it took me so long.