Oliver died this morning. We think he was 9. He was an adult cat when we adopted him, so we can’t tell for sure.
Oliver was the first cat I ever loved. I think part of that was that he was the first cat who ever chose me. (That’s him hanging out in my study, right after we got him.) Oliver and I were on the same page. He was a cat for a guy who wasn’t a cat guy. I think he knew I wasn’t a cat guy, but he also seemed to tell me “hey, man, I’m no ordinary cat either.” He’s right. He wasn’t.
Four weeks ago I picked Oliver up, and was instantly horrified. It was like moving a bath towel. I couldn’t believe how much weight he’d lost, and how quickly he’d done so. Working with our veterinarian, we systematically eliminated everything treatable that could be wrong with him, and were heartbroken that he didn’t respond to any of his treatments. We don’t know exactly why we had to let him go this morning, but it was probably cancer.
The depth of perturbation he occasionally generated in me was impressive. I still count it as one of the unique stresses in my life when he went walkabout for three days. Oh, I was horribly bothered. Then, he managed to annoy me to a significant degree, largely fueled by how I felt about that adventure. We had to put our eyeballs on Oliver every time we left the house. No exceptions.
I had started writing, in my head, the post that described Oliver’s triumphant recovery from a bacterial infection, or an autoimmune disease, or something else treatable that we would have eliminated so we’d have another few years with him. I’m heartbroken I didn’t get to publish that post. Turned out that no, it really was something bad, and that something bad was too much for him.
Wow, I can’t tell you how much I hate that. This has been the worst pet death of my life.
We are so blessed to have had six wonderful years with Oliver, and I’m thankful we were able to detect how sick he was and could therefore spare him a possibly painful death. Big man, I’m so sorry. You weren’t here nearly long enough.
Just this side of heaven is a place called Rainbow Bridge.
When an animal dies that has been especially close to someone here, that pet goes to Rainbow Bridge. There are meadows and hills for all of our special friends so they can run and play together. There is plenty of food, water and sunshine, and our friends are warm and comfortable.
All the animals who had been ill and old are restored to health and vigor. Those who were hurt or maimed are made whole and strong again, just as we remember them in our dreams of days and times gone by. The animals are happy and content, except for one small thing; they each miss someone very special to them, who had to be left behind.
They all run and play together, but the day comes when one suddenly stops and looks into the distance. His bright eyes are intent. His eager body quivers. Suddenly he begins to run from the group, flying over the green grass, his legs carrying him faster and faster.
You have been spotted, and when you and your special friend finally meet, you cling together in joyous reunion, never to be parted again. The happy kisses rain upon your face; your hands again caress the beloved head, and you look once more into the trusting eyes of your pet, so long gone from your life but never absent from your heart.
Then you cross Rainbow Bridge together.
– Author unknown
Goodbye, our special, special friend Oliver. We’ll miss you so much. See you at Rainbow Bridge.
RIP.
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Well said as always Bo. My thoughts are with your family. I applaud you for adopting an older cat and it sounds like he blessed your family with his unique spirit.
What a beautiful tribute! From your post I know that both YOU and Oliver were lucky to have crossed paths in this lifetime. I read this to my mother, a pet lover to say the least, and she was moved to tears by your beautiful words.
I am so sorry for your loss. RIP Oliver
So sad, Bo. Pets are so very hard to let go. My Calico kitty, FooFoo, lived to be 22 years old. It was unbelievable. At that time, I had had her over half my life. Longer than my son had been around and longer than both husbands, put together! 🙂 I still miss her. Oliver sounds like he was a great little guy.
Thank you, all.
This post is very me-centric. To be clear, Oliver loved everyone and everyone loved Oliver. He was a full family member.
Bo, I am so sorry. Losing a pet is always hard, losing the truly special ones is even worse.
Thank you, Amanda.
I started trying to joke with Lea about it a bit this evening. I’d walk in the room and say “OK, joke’s over. Where’s my damned cat? I’m ready to see him.” Then we’d share a semi-forced chuckle in which neither of our hearts truly was.
Really, it’s uncharted territory for me. It’s hitting me harder than I would have guessed an animal’s death was capable of doing.
I am so sorry for your loss Bo.
Thank you, Carol.
I’m so sorry.
People don’t often give the loss of a pet the importance it deserves. You are grieving and this was a member of your family. It doesn’t matter that he walked on four paws and licked himself clean in your favorite chair.
I wish I could make it all better for you and the family.
He was loved and I’m sure he knew it. Nobody, furry or otherwise, could ask for more out of life.
Thank you, kemtee. It hurts so bad. On May 10, 1987, I had to go get my dog off the side of the road, where he’d just been struck and killed. He was still warm and the blood on his fur was sticky. I dug a hole for him and buried him in the backyard. I was home alone. I was 16 years old. It was awful.
And this hurts worse. I’ve been totally blindsided by the severity of the emotional toll this is taking on me.
I need to feel better at the end of this long weekend. That’s a mission priority.
Losing a pet is really devastating. You’ve said a very nice “good-bye” to Oliver here. Thinking of you and your family.
Thanks much, Dave. I appreciate it. We all do.
I know the pain you are feeling. Many people will diminish it by words like “It was just a cat” but I get it. My beloved cat of 14 years had diabetes the last few years of her life that I treated. But when she had a rapid decline, I knew I wouldn’t go to any extraordinary measures just to keep her around suffering for MY sake. So we put her down. I stayed in the room with her and that was beyond words how difficult it was. It is devastating. And it’s remarkable how you can feel that way for a particular pet and maybe not for another one. I now have a dog that I love so much it pains me to sometimes think about how short his lifespan will be. Pets just don’t live long enough. But the joy we do have when we are matched with the right one is worth any future sorrow at letting go.
Thank you, Susan. I had a harder time taking him from the boys than I did being with him when he died, but warn’t none of it fun, that’s for sure.
It’s been a growing experience for me in some ways. I’d have told you I had “pet grief” sussed and boxed on the shelf. This hurt has been considerably worse than I would have expected had you described the sequence of events to me some months ago.
I appreciate your empathy and kindness.