Some people believe their deceased animals come back in the form of other pets. Maybe they do. Anything is possible. I don’t make such a claim, although I have always felt that Willow and Blackie came into my life at the urging of Panther.
Panther’s death hit me the same way Yeti’s had. Weak-minded or just plain daft it may seem, but animals have always been my faithful companions, never disappointing me the way so many people have. So I mourn for them.
When Panther died, I just could not seem to move past the emptiness I felt.
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Then one day I looked out of my living room window and met the eyes of a little grey kitten on the ivy-covered slope. Next day the kitten walked into the trap Grant had placed on the patio. We took her inside and opened the door expecting her to emerge hissing and growling but she climbed into my lap and sat there purring. From that moment, my grief shifted.
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Like Yeti, Panther was with me a long time and he was such an endearing character. It was no wonder he left such a huge hole in my heart. The house was full of cats, yet it took the arrival of another to lift my sadness.
It will seem that I have favourites, that some losses matter more, but it is not so. I love all animals that come into my care and when they pass, I am always terribly undone. I have no explanation for the excessive sadness over Yeti and Panther except to say that I felt some sort of close emotional connection to them both.
Willow is not like either of them, but I feel connected to her as well.
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Blackie too, In a totally different way. She gazes at me intensely, as in the picture above, purring madly and it has always been this way since she first came upon me digging in my garden. It’s as if she came to keep an eye on me.
Panther was tiny but it was right that he sent two to fill his shoes!
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Panther had come into my life more than two years before Yeti died, but as important as he became to me, it was the arrival of Thimphu that cured my aching heart back then.
Such curiosities, I don’t seek to comprehend. Thimphu represented the kindness of caring friends. And he was Himalayan. We tend to have an attraction to particular breeds.
Although I love all dogs, the sight of a cocker spaniel makes me go soft.
With cats, it’s Himalayans. Thimphu was flame-coloured and flat-faced where Yeti had had a normal face and was dark-complected, but they had the same sweet nature.
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Timmy made us laugh all the time.
Even my brother who is not a great cat-lover played with him.
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Thimphu was into everything, including the clothes-dryer and the bunnies’ hay.
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When we moved to a new place, I took Timmy in first and let him run around in the empty town-home. He scampered about, his eyes huge as if to say:
“Where’s all our stuff?”
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Thimphu had a protruding lower tooth which often caused his tongue to stick out. His poor little nose was almost non-existent.
He never breathed normally, so in that regard I suppose he did not suffer since he didn’t know anything different. It didn’t stop him leading an active life.
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Timmy was very small, so even short people seemed a long way up to him. He liked everyone and always wished to be introduced.
If a workman or visitor stepped through the front door, they soon felt a curious poking of their ankle and upon checking saw this little face staring up.
Without exception they bent to say hello.
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There are so many ways you can lose an animal companion, all of them painful. I could write a dissertation. The worst thing, in my experience, is when your companion disappears.
Animals that go missing often come back and just as often don’t. You are left in a dreadful limbo, imagining, hoping, despairing, for days, months, years even. After Mohammed disappeared, I counted the years. Even after I knew he could be no more, it had become a routine to mark his day.
For me that was the hardest, not knowing what happened, not getting to say goodbye.
We have nursed many animals through illnesses and had to make hard decisions. We have kept vigil at home as their time ran out peacefully. Twice we found that our little friends had departed during the night.
All those occasions were difficult, but the end not unexpected.
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One night when Thimphu was 8 years old I took a photograph of him curled up in the loveseat with Lily. He looked the same as always. Next morning it was obvious, though I can’t remember the details, that he was in distress. I rushed him to the vet and there was nothing to be done but end his suffering.
Our vet was a wonderfully kind, compassionate woman. She told me to call Grant to come and be with me and we said goodbye together, shocked, devastated.
The suddenness was what made this loss so hard.
At least I could be grateful that Thimphu’s illness was short.
And I will always be so grateful to have had him in my life.
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Such sadness, but I agree with you that a lost or missing pet is harder to bear than one you are able to be with at the end. I don’t think I could have ever coped if Ollie had disappeared, but as a loyal dog, he was almost always right next to my side. You gave little Timphu a caring home full of love, and made his short life better by doing so.
Best wishes, Pete.
Thank you, Carolyn, for sharing your memories of loss and the comfort you have experienced when caring for cats, your companion and friends! My friendship and love with Gaby influenced my life profoundly, but I wouldn’t miss a single day of having him with me.
Joanna x
It’s uncanny, but when we housesat in Calabria, a dog died on us (I think I mentioned this before). Both of us were distraught and had to bury him in the garden in the torrential rain. Our good friends knew he was gravely ill, but had to go to the UK.
Several months later, another younger dog turned up on their doorstep that was a spit image of the dog that died – same mannerisms, colouring, type, everything. Either Rocky (the dog that died) sowed his seeds in the village, because he used to wander at night, or Rocky was reincarnated, but it really was so very bizarre!