Almost Family

A cat-sitter's grief.

Last week, a friend of mine passed away.

He had recently been diagnosed with advanced-stage cancer. It was sudden and unexpected. A few of us had met up to say goodbye to him. Over glasses of red wine, we had cried and laughed, remembering our fondest moments with him and trying to come to terms with the finite nature of life. At times, he perked up a bit and seemed more like himself again. We all took final photos and hugged him goodbye.

Later, he was taken to the veterinary clinic for euthanasia.

Because this friend happened to be a cat.

I met this cat when I met his human companion. A neighbour of two of our dearest friends, she was in need of a cat-sitter and our friends happened to be away. As the habitual house- and dog-sitters we are, we stepped up - and ended up making unexpected friendships. Today, I speak to her almost daily. She has become a beautiful presence in my life, reminding me that friendships are like those stubborn flowers that grow in the strangest places.

I will never not miss that face

As the cat-sitter, you’re the fun “aunt and uncle” to the official guardian’s rigid “parent”. You’re the one who sneaks treats, the one who allows them on the bed, and who lets them explore uncharted territory. You’re the unfamiliar made familiar, the unknown figure becoming a comforting face. You’re the holiday. The break. And that break isn’t just for them, it’s also for you, and the rollercoaster it takes you on is full of sharp turns. The responsibility that’s new to you. What if they hurt themselves? What if they eat something dangerous? What if they escape? What if?

But then you sit and read at night and they snuggle up to you, feeling comfortable and confident, secure and loved. And your heart squeezes in your chest; it’s almost too much. You almost don’t allow yourself to feel it. After all, this animal is Not Yours.

But after a few days, closeness grows from the little seeds of patience you planted. You’re trusted. You’re almost family.

Once the sit is over and you’re back in your own animal-less flat, the emptiness that ensues is unnerving in its unexpectedness. Get a grip, you tell yourself. It’s not even your cat. But when there are no more sits to plan, when you’ve pet their black and white face for the last time, the pain cuts so sharply that you gasp for air. “It’s just a cat.” “It’s just a dog.” Isn’t everything “just” something? Just a person. Just a day. Just a life. We’re all “just” souls on this planet, human or otherwise, trying to get through it all.

On my way home after that tearful evening saying goodbye, I sat in the Uber holding back tears as the nighttime city whizzed past me. What time was it? Had I eaten? I was glad I had a six a.m alarm the following day. To take my mind off things. I couldn’t wait to be on the train on a work trip, consumed with things to do, attempting to escape from this peculiar sadness that was blossoming in my chest.

But days later, there I stood, in the barren and generic veterinary clinic, next to my friend who was holding her companion in her arms for the last time. I held her hand and struggled to find the words to tell her how strong, brave and selfless she was. I tried my best to offer comfort, like I had attempted to do for her cat on that first sit, when he was scared and missed her, my husband and I moving about his spaces like intruders. As a temporary guardian, you’re exceptionally clueless, especially the first time. But you do your best and just hope it’s enough. And that’s what you do when you need to comfort someone who’s grieving.

The avalanche of tears hit me as soon as I was back in my flat, the finality of even the smallest things unbearable. As a dog- and cat-sitter, one thing that I’ve noticed is the complete shattering of your illusions. I’ve always thought I’d have animals again “someday”. But after becoming a trusted animal-sitter for some of my favourite friends, I’ve come to realise just how much I admire all those who have taken an animal into their home - I am nowhere near ready. I’m not ready for the responsibility. The worry. The millions of unexpected concerns. But above all, I’m not ready to face the knowledge that the day will come when I will have to hold a tiny body in my arms and feel the tiny heart beating for the last time. Sometimes love is letting go, my friend wrote in a social media caption. We all struggle with letting go, and life has such devastating ways of teaching us.

This weekend, we walked on the beach. We sat in a cosy flat lit up by fairy lights. We ate soup, drank wine, looked at photos and videos of him doing funny cat things. We laughed. We reminisced. The last winds of November carried him away as another winter came, full of tinsel, cheery songs and warm, festive drinks. Memories come knocking every Christmas, and he will be another memory, living forever in the little things. I’ll be finding his hairs in my flat for the next ten years, my friend says. My strong, funny, smart friend. He brought us together in a way that only animals can, and for that, I’ll always be grateful. Life is fragile, it’s heartbreakingly temporary, and all we can do is cling to the here and now, savouring the moments we collect along the way.