Catharsis

Or should I say, Catharsis

Hello my little baby boy Jack 

Yes, I’m writing to you fully aware I’m writing to a Cat, and, what’s more, a Dead Cat. It is not common practice for humans to write to their cats, dead or alive, but the urge in me is so great that not writing to you is only serving to exacerbate the emotional turmoil into which your sudden disappearance from my life has thrown me. I need to somehow deal with the loss of your cherished presence in my world; somehow come to terms with my role in this little tragedy of ours; somehow stop my punishing mind from returning time and again to the sights and sounds of that day. I have spent the past four months thinking of you in my quiet moments; at times reliving the horror, at others giving in to an overwhelming sadness. Perhaps writing it all down and speaking directly to you will help me through this grieving process. Grief is such a personal emotion, difficult for others to fully comprehend, even more so when that grief is over a “pet”. I hate the word “pet” – I find it to be a word bereft of any indication of the scope of emotional ties it is capable of carrying, and reduces the little creature in question to nothing more than a possession, like a house or a car, or any other object with which we fill our empty lives. You weren’t just a “pet” to me. You were my Jack, a handsome little boy with your own curious expressions, sounds, movements and idiosyncrasies, with whom I was just beginning to strike a mutual understanding as you approached the end of your adolescence. I gave you food, warmth, shelter and love. You gave me moments of happiness, affection, amusement and a reason to be. And just like that, you were gone, leaving a gaping hole in my world too much to bear. I have been torn between wanting to tell people about what we both went through that day and how much I miss you, and having to repress my emotions for fear of becoming a nuisance or being disregarded as just another “crazy cat woman”. No one, other than Luna and I, knew you, so why should anyone else care? Why should they have to listen to my sorrow? Why should they have to deal with my grief? What can they say anyway? That he's in a better place? That he's no longer suffering? I know that already and it doesn't help at all. And so, in order to express all this pent-up grief, I turn to the written word. I want to help myself come to terms with the abject pain and suffering you experienced. I want to tell you the things I couldn’t tell you on that fateful day. I want to remember every moment for they were my last with you. I want to say goodbye for I never got the chance.

It is the morning of the 3rd of September, a Saturday, and I wake up around 5:30am. I heave myself out of bed, a little worse for wear, the effects of the previous night's combination of music and alcohol manifesting themselves through their usual channels. I'd arrived home after midnight, fed you and Luna, and let you out, thinking you deserved a few hours of nocturnal exploration after spending the day cooped up inside for longer than usual. That was some four hours ago now and I feel a little anxious that neither of you are in the house. 

I open the door to the garden and make my customary summoning noise which is normally followed by both you and your sister galloping into the kitchen, ready for breakfast after a few hours of early-morning-gallivanting. Luna comes running in, right on cue, and I look up at the tree - where every single morning without fail you’d be terrorising the doves - fully expecting to see you jump down from one branch to the next, onto the fence, onto Gladys’s storage boxes, across her patio and through the fence, onto our decking and straight into the kitchen, your claws pitter-pattering on the floor, your big eyes full of the expectation of a good feed. But there is no sign of you. 

I hear the creaking of the door to the panic room of my mind being slowly opened. But I try to rationalise - you know, how other folks do. You'll be up another tree. Or on the other side of the fence. Or in the front garden. You'll make your way home soon. I keep on making the summoning noises. But, still, there is no sign of you. 

My mind begins to go over the events of the previous hours. I recall Luna coming in during the night, running up and down the corridor, into the bedroom, across the bed, more agitated than I'd ever known her to be. I recall that you didn’t come in at all yourself when it was customary for you to do so, always waking me up with a gentle head-butt, lying sprawled across my chest enjoying a brief cuddle before going back through the portal that is the cat-flap to sensory excitement of the outside world. I also notice that Luna is still very agitated and has come back out into the garden, sitting on her haunches at her look-out point instead of gulping down her breakfast. I hear a car horn and think how unusual it is to hear a car horn so early in the morning. The sound hurls me into full panic mode and a sickeningly instinctive feeling fills my gut. I make a few more attempts at calling you in, but, still, there is no sign of you. 

As the panic surges through my body, I automatically put some shoes on, throw on a coat and leave the house with the intention of walking around the block in the hope of spotting you and bringing you in. At the top of our road, only three houses from our home, I catch sight of you. You’re on the pavement, on the other side of the road perpendicular to ours, lying on your belly, head up, and you're looking directly at me. The first thought that enters my mind is “why the hell are you sunning yourself over there when you could be sunning in our garden?” but  then cold harsh ugly sickening reality makes its gruesome self apparent. “Jack!” I shout as I run across the road to you, “Jack!” I do not want to accept what my eyes are seeing. I do not want this to be happening. I do not want to believe that this is happening. But it is.

Your legs are splayed behind you. They are very obviously broken. You are broken. You look up at me with big wide eyes full of fear and pain and shock, and start mewing, the most heartbreaking sound my ears have ever heard. The world around me vanishes. My heightened senses zoom into the space that is you. Nothing else exists. I gather you in my arms, and as I do, your legs fall limp and misshapen. I am horrified and blindly rush to the house, your agonising mewing filling the air around us, my breathing thudding against the confines of my throat. 

I struggle to open the door. Everything is in slow motion and seems to take forever. As I carry you through the door, Luna rushes up to us. I shoo her away. I take you into the lounge and put your little broken body down gently on the couch. Luna follows. I shoo her away again and close the door. I switch the computer on. I must find an animal hospital. I realise I’m completely unprepared for this. Guilt, guilt. I hear a thud, turn around and see to my utter horror that you have fallen onto the floor and are trying to pull yourself back up onto the couch with your front paws, your hind legs hanging limp behind you. I help you up, horrified at what is happening, at what you are going through. I find an animal hospital and ring, getting an answering service informing me to “bring the wounded animal straight to the hospital”. I phone for a taxi. The operator is one who always remembers my name and I’m so grateful for her friendly voice. In tears I tell her what has happened and she immediately sends a cab round. I struggle to write down the address. I seem to have lost the ability to write. In a panic I look for the pet insurance paperwork. I am not prepared for this. Guilt, guilt. I run into the kitchen to get the cat carrier. I quickly realise there is no way I can get you inside it, so I clumsily take the top half of it off and lay you on the bottom half. Luna watches us leave the house. It is the last time you see or hear her, and she you. 

I am grateful to see the taxi driver is one I get on well with. I try to get into the car without causing you further pain and I seem to take an eternity. The driver tells me to just get in and tell him where we need to go. You are still mewing, my poor little boy, and I stroke your little head and whiskers, which seems to calm you. I’m crying. I’m sweating. I can’t see anything. I can only hear your mewing and am drowning in the horror of what is happening to you, to us. We get to the hospital and I carry you to the entrance. I ring the bell again and again, crying please please please. My eyes finally focus on a sign that says “nightbell” and I ring it. A man, the vet on night duty, comes to the door and lets us in. 

We go into a room where I tearfully and rather incoherently explain what has happened and he confirms you have been in a road accident, your scuffed claws being one of the clues. You lay there as he takes your temperature and tells me you’re extremely cold; you’re in shock and your temperature is 32 degrees celcius when it should be around 38. He tells me your legs are fractured, one of them severely. He tells me there is blood coming from your rectum so there is a possibility of internal bleeding. He tells me the first thing they have to do is give you shock therapy and pain relief, bring your temperature up and get your blood flowing. Only then can they establish the full extent of your injuries. All the while I am crying, drenched in sweat, and you are lying there on the table, my poor little broken Jack, pupils fully dilated, in shock and in pain. The vet tells me they’ll ring at 10am to let me know how you’re responding to treatment. I leave my details and watch him carry you away, leaving me with the empty bottom half of your carrier. It is the last time I see you alive. I wish I'd kissed you goodbye. Bye my darling little boy. Sobbing, I get back into the taxi, the driver having kindly waited for me, and return home to Luna. 

There is blood on the floor where you fell from the couch. There is blood on the throw where you lay. 

I can’t remember much of those waiting hours. I cried. I rang my mother. I cried. I posted the horrible news on Facebook. I cried. I spoke with friends. I cried. I prayed. Please let him be alright, please, please let my little boy be alright. I cried. I waited for the vet’s phone call. 

At 10:30am I can wait no longer and ring the hospital myself. The vet looking after you now is Mark, and he has a comforting voice, with the softest of Irish accents. He tells me you are still critical but responding well to the shock therapy. Your temperature has risen, your circulation is returning to normal. He says you responded well to being handled during the x-rays, which showed multiple fractures in your legs and their having being completely separated from your little pelvis. He warns me you will need several operations to fix your bones but before even thinking of going down that road he wants to establish the extent of your internal injuries. Once again the rectal bleeding is mentioned. He tells me he will ring around 5pm to give me an update. And so I resume my anxious wait. 

Just after 2pm, I see I have a missed call from the hospital. I had gone to the bathroom and not taken the phone in with me. Mark has left a voicemail asking me to ring as soon as I've heard it. I ring and ring and ring and ring, all the time getting the answering service. Eventually, at around 2:30pm I get through and ask the receptionist to put me through to Mark. When I say it is regarding you and that I’m returning his call, her voice changes, becomes softer. Minutes later, Mark rings. My tears begin falling as he tells me they found you in your kennel, agonising. He tells me they revived you but that you started coughing up blood. He tells me they realised you were drowning in your own blood, that your little lungs were full of it. He tells me they tried to get in touch with me to get my permission to end your agony. He tells me they couldn’t reach me and had to make the decision to put you to sleep. He tells me that you're gone. “What now?” I ask him. I try not to sob but it is beyond me. He gently tells me I can go and see you and communicate what my wishes for you - your remains - are. I manage to tell him I’ll be there in an hour before my throat is filled with sorrow and grief, so much so that I cannot say goodbye to him. 

You’re gone. My little baby boy is gone. For the second time in my life I cry no no no no and stop myself from hurling my fists into walls, cupboards, doors. I am beside myself with grief. I stumble around from room to room. I mumble your name and say “I’m so sorry” again and again and again. I see all the neighbourhood cats parade through the garden one by one, saying "Look! We're alive!" I can’t remember much else other than speaking with friends who offer to go with me to see you. 

Pip comes with me in the end. My second taxi ride to that hospital in one day. Upon making ourselves known at reception, we are taken to an empty room. I am quiet and seemingly resigned but my tears will not stop falling. I am glad Pip is there with me. The nurse brings you in and lays you on the table. You are wrapped in a pink and black blanket, eyes closed, sleeping the eternal sleep. I touch your forehead and stroke your whiskers, half expecting you to react as you always did, but of course you don't, and never will again. I thank you for being with me as long as you were, and for waiting for me to find you that morning. Mark comes in and tells me all the details of this horrible day. He is very sweet and, although I find his voice comforting, tears roll down my face throughout our conversation. He tells me they gave you methadone as soon as you were taken into the kennel and assures me you were in no pain from that moment on, that you were not aware of your pain or suffering towards the end, that you were catatonic during your agonising moments. He tells me of my options, whether I want to bury you or have you cremated, how much this will cost, and the variety of urns I can choose from. I have crazy thoughts of taxidermy. There you are, lying in front of me and there we are, talking about the cost of your disposal. The business of death. I choose cremation. I choose an urn. I say my last goodbye to you. I go home to Luna. 

I don’t remember much of that evening. I know I cried. I know I relived the day’s events over and over again. I know I couldn’t bear to be in my skin. I know I couldn't stand the thought of never seeing you again, never hearing your heavy footsteps again, never stroking your soft coat, never being head-butted by you, never hearing your adorable little snore, never seeing you lying in your favourite places, never seeing you play with Luna, never seeing you cuddled up with her. I can't bear this. 

You were cremated on the 7th of September. The walk to the hospital to pick up your ashes was the saddest, loneliest walk of my life. The place was full of people and their beloved animals; their very alive beloved animals. And there I was, in tears, being handed a bag containing your urn. My little Jack, once so very beautiful and full of life, now reduced to ashes, being carried back home in a bag. 

I am not the only one who misses you; Luna does too. It was heartbreaking to watch her the weeks following your death. She visibly changed, becoming less playful and adventurous; it was as if she had matured overnight. She constantly sought you out, sniffing the air, sniffing the places you used to frequent or those where you used to sleep. She sat by the cat-flap waiting for you to come in or at her look-out point in the garden waiting for you to return. Poor little girl. She'd never spent a day without you since you were born. You were a little team, playing or play-fighting together, cuddling up together, exploring together, eating together, discovering and experiencing life together. Leaving her at home alone while I went to work was hell, and every evening when I got back home she'd be sitting on the window sill waiting for my return.

Ever since your death, letting Luna outside has become a nightmare for me. I can't bear her being out there but I know I can't make her housebound after having given her the taste of the outdoors. I control  her entry and exit though - the cat-flap hasn't been used since that day - and there are times when I will sit at the door waiting for her little face to appear on the other side of the glass, wanting to be let in. There have also been times when she's been gone for longer than an hour which my nerves are quite incapable of tolerating, and neighbours will confirm that they have seen me walking around the block calling for her. These walkabouts invariably end with my returning and finding her back indoors wondering what the hell I'm up to. But, once bitten, twice shy. It is not my imagination running wild. It is my memory reminding me that it actually happened before. I mean, what were the chances? Of all the cats in the neighbourhood, of all the times of day it could have happened, of all the cars to be driven up and down that road. 

My worst nightmare played out in front of my very eyes that day, Jack. What I most dreaded and most wanted to protect you from happened regardless of my efforts or wishes, and I was powerless to stop it. I am so sorry you had to experience such pain and terror. I am so sorry you didn't get to live a long life with me and your sister. I am so sorry you were with me for such a short time. I am so sorry for the part I played in what happened to you. I am so sorry, my little boy. I am so sorry. 

Today is the anniversary of the day I brought you and Luna home from the animal rescue centre. You were only in my world for nine months but you will live on in my heart for the rest of my life.

JACK
b. 30 April 2010
d. 3 September 2011