There’s a short story we were set to read during my Creative Writing MA. More a vignette really. It was about the happiest moment in someone’s life. A guy is on a train, his family are around him, his daughter rests her head on his shoulder. At the time he doesn’t realise it’s his happiest moment of his entire life, but bit by bit things fall apart. The story had a huge emotional impact on me, and when I chatted to the others in my tutorial group, it had the same effect on them. It’s about a happy moment, but the inevitability of that happiness is the rest of your life will always live in the shadow of that moment. As someone pointed out, if you are a parent, there will be a point in your life when you put your child down and, unless you’re a weight-lifter, or they remain much smaller than you, never pick them up again.

This morning the second of my two cats, Pash, was put to sleep. She had a severe heart episode on Sunday, which left liquid on her lungs. We hoped it would have been possible to manage her medication so that we could remove the liquid, but without dehydrating her too much. But there was no way to balance the two demands on her body. This morning her breathing was laboured from the water pressure on her lungs, and she still wasn’t hydrated enough. So with the vet we decided it was the right thing. It was quick overall. From having the episode to five days of care, to the end. She was 17. I’d had her since Easter 2008.

My elder cat, Sinta, had kidney disease. She was being treated and was on special food, and lasted seven months from initial diagnosis to a moment when she degenerated rapidly. That was Feb 4 2023. She was 16. I’d had her since 2006.

I initially had Sinta because my ex-girlfriend suggested it. We’d had an on-again, off-again relationship for 6 years. We’d row, split up, one or both would get lonely, and we’d get together again. The last split was amicable, but her suggestion I get a cat was (fairly transparently) that with something to prevent one of us from feeling lonely, we’d break that cycle.

It worked. It sounds cheesy, but it really felt like I’d found a soulmate. She’d climb onto my shoulder and happily sit there. Be content to just sit on me and we’d stare at each other. Come when I called her. The relationship felt more like one of Pullman’s daemons than a pet.

Then I got a full-time in person job and I thought she’d need a companion, so I got Pash. Which after an initial bit of conflict, also worked. There’s a painting of the two of them my father did, of them sitting next to each other on the windowsill looking out of the window. He’s caught their postures perfectly, their tails curling in mirror reflections of each other, Pash still not fully grown.

One of the things about autism: people are tiring. The constant extra effort in determining what’s going on, the wealth of information about emotions, expressions, tones, you’re expected to parse. The constant self-management of masking. Being away from them is a relief. They don’t make effective constant companions. Even if you find the perfect match in a partner, they’ll be autistic too probably, so they’ll need to withdraw for long periods of time. Which I understand, but also that can feel lonely.

Cats (and dogs – I suspect) don’t judge. You don’t need to mask in front of them. Yet they still come to you for comfort, they still need us, and are still comforting. Physically they have perfect fur, they purr (one up on dogs there), they’re warm, their weight is comforting as they lie on you. They vocalise enough but not too much. Both of mine had a wide range of sounds that could almost be a conversation. They’d play. But most importantly, they would always be there. When I went through a major depression after getting my PhD (no job, all my social contacts had withered, the one thing I’d focused five years on had ended, and there was nothing to take its place) the cats were there. During covid, they were there. They were my bedrock. For a lot of people, pets become part of the family, but for long periods of my life, those two were my family.

After Sinta died, Pash came into her own. Suddenly there was no competition for my affection. I’d get headbutts, she’d stretch her paws out and claw me in sheer happiness at being near me. Undisguised, unfeigned.

I knew my time with Sinta was limited, which meant much more focus on my time with them. There was one moment I remember, lying in bed, one each lying contented on a shoulder, purring in absolute bliss, and I felt utter contentment. And I know that is the moment that the rest of my life will exist in the shadow of.

I miss them, obviously, and that’s where a lot of the grief comes from. Knowing that they won’t be around to come up to me when I get home, or jump on the bed to be allowed in to sleep next to me, or sit on me and let me talk to them or sing to them (I’m sure Sinta loved my rendition of Klokleda partha menin klatch). But much of the grief comes from knowing that feeling of contentment, of just sheer happiness of having those balls of fur lying on me, trusting me, sharing their contentment with me, is gone forever.

I have a metaphor for grief. It’s the sort of thing Langdon Jones once described as antipoetry because it’s so banal. Grief is like a hydrofoil. While I’m busy skimming along, I’m above it all. I can work, write a blog post, watch TV, read a book, and it’s pushed away. But as soon as I stop, I sink into it. Waves of it come at me and every seventh one, or so, is so big it swamps me. Even after two years, I’d be physically hit by a wall of grief that Sinta was gone. Now both have. All you can do is let it drive you down, and hold on until you come up for air.

This time is, I think, easier. I’m not sure why. I think because with one cat there was still something emotional going on inside. This time, with none, I don’t think that connection with the emotions is working so well. I’m just on autopilot now. Maybe I’ll be wrong. It’s still early days. I didn’t save any of Pash’s fur from the last time I groomed her, so hunted around my room for traces of it. I gathered up a small handful of it, and yes, it’s soft and white, but there’s no emotional connection to or tactile memory of her in it. It’s just fur. I wanted to feel something from it though. It’s good to have the scrappy bits of fur though because if I didn’t I’d regret not having some so that I could have that connection. This is evidence that wouldn’t work. I haven’t been able to look at any photos or videos. Still can’t for Sinta. They might have a better connection to them, but that might be overwhelming. Like it would trigger this big ball that’s just inside that I can’t let out, but I want to let it out in manageable amounts. Maybe it’s there to stay.

A friend has talked about a ceremony for emotional closure. I’m not sure I want that. I’m not sure what would be left if I got closure. Today’s card on my tarot app says “Keep going, knowing that the journey does not end.” So — good advice. We’ll see.

<edit> I’ve come back in to change the names of my cats – I don’t remember if I’ve ever used them as passwords but it’s possible at some point over the past 19 years that I have.

I’m realising that the effort (on day 1) of getting through is added to by a sort of muscle memory of them. Lying on the bed anticipating one jumping up onto it, to an extent that I think it’s happened. Like a phantom limb. Opening the curtains and looking down expecting one of them to be looking through the window and to look up and give an acknowledging meow at me.

All those moments were small little lifts that brightened each hour. Now they’re not there. I keep leaning on something that’s absent, and keep falling. And much as that habit painful, the worry is that it’ll wear off and I’ll forget what that felt like. Just sharing my life that closely with another for so long that your behaviours are intertwined, not just your lives.

Also, why I’m writing this post. Main aim is – there’s probably someone out there feeling the same thing. It might help to see someone else understands it.