Yesterday, after searching and posting signs for our lost Hawaiian cat, Noa, our neighbor came by to tell us he heard the coyotes celebrating Friday night. Unfortunately, we believe they were celebrating the capture of our beloved Noa, who do not come in when called as he ALWAYS had – in fact, he had never wandered past the perimeter of our home. He was a very sweet, loving cat, who likely greeted the coyote as if it were a friendly dog.
I cried last night – hard. He counted on us. He loved us unconditionally (well, he did pee on a few things when he was mad at us), and always greeted us at the door with a meow and a leg rub. He played with our kids and let them handle him recklessly. He was there when we were sad – literally climbing on any of us when he suspected sadness or saw tears forming in our eyes.
We love our cat. He sat in the funniest positions in the middle of the floor constantly obsessed about our water glasses and how he could sneak a drink. I wish he would come back. I wish he hadn’t gotten out that night. I wish he was okay.
I worked at Hospice for quite a while during my therapy internship and hearing people grieve over their loved ones was a very difficult task. But I think it prepared me for moments like this. Granted people hold more value to us than animals – though we love them desperately. And I am not comparing the death of a cat to the death of say my friend’s father, whom she recently lost. This is just to say grief is grief. There is longing and hoping and praying and wishing and sadness and anger and even guilt and blame.
Grief is a natural occurrence and difficult process. It consumes and tears apart, but in the end, if done well, it can be healing and strengthening, too.
My first instinct was to give away our other cat (who we recently adopted) just so that my kids, and husband and I wouldn’t have to grieve again should she get out as well (with 2 young kids and doors opening and closing rapidly in many locations – it’s inevitable). Then I realized you can’t escape life and its grief by returning things, or hiding things, or caging things, or not giving your heart to people or animals. What kind of life would that be?
I am heartbroken. My kids still think he’s coming back despite our telling him he isn’t. I love that about kids – they are always hopeful. Somehow we take that away from them instead of encouraging it. Somehow, we tell them to love and that they can do anything but then tell them some things are hopeless. Death is final, yes. Hope is not.
We will spend awhile grieving our Noa-Bear. I will still cry many tears and wish for him to be safely in my lap to comfort me. That’s okay. I will grieve well – I will memorialize him, and talk story about him, and know that he was a very special addition to our family. And I will do my best to keep hope alive for my kids.
We love you, Noa-Bear!!!!!!!!!
Amy M Price, LMFT 