So Long, Sophie
It is an understatement, almost to the point of being an untruth, to say that losing a pet is hard. I doubt that many people will read this piece, because people don’t like to be sad, and that’s ok - I don’t like to be sad, either. However, if I can provide just one person going through the same situation with some piece of mind and something to relate to, I’d like to do that. I also felt that I owed it to Sophie, and maybe to myself and anyone else who knew her, to share about her last days, and how much she’ll be missed.
If you’ve read my piece introducing Sophie to my blog, you’d know that she’s been in my life for only 5 years. This is the risk we take when we adopt a middle aged or older pet, as tough as it is to face. Sophie has been such an enormous part of my everyday life that it almost feels like an alternate reality without her. Some might say she was “just a cat”, or “only an animal”, but anyone who has loved a pet would argue otherwise.
I lived with Sophie in 3 different homes (4 if you count the few weeks we stayed with my parents before I moved in with my husband). The 5 years we spent together were extremely important and filled with milestones, which made saying goodbye feel even more like the end of an era. Some of the most memorable days of my life ended by falling asleep next to Sophie, from returning home after college parties, to my wedding day. Sophie was my life.
But, as much as I would love to say that every moment with Sophie was smooth sailing until the end, that wasn’t the case. Sophie had had digestive issues for about 3 years on and off. In the early days of it, when we still lived in Ann Arbor, I brought her in to an emergency vet, and their response was “So...why is this an emergency?” They gave us some soft food and said that whatever was going on, it should clear up in a couple days. And it did, sort of. But for the next 3 years, she would slowly begin to throw up more and more often. I knew something was off, and we started bringing her into the vet more regularly, but to no avail - every vet would tell us that she was just “getting older”, and “that’s how cats are”, giving us anti-nausea medicine, or nothing at all. We eventually started trying whatever we could at home, switching her to an only wet food diet and giving her canned pumpkin mixed with water regularly to help with constipation and hydration. But she was getting thinner, and seemed to be hungry and thirsty constantly.
One morning in January, I woke up to an apartment covered in vomit. She had gotten sick everywhere, and I was really worried, but the echo of past vet visits were still stuck in my head - “She’s probably fine, she’s just getting old, she’s probably fine, she’s just getting old”. Dan knew better though, and found an urgent care vet in the area where we could bring her in that day.
The vet was immediately concerned, and said that she seemed very dehydrated, and he wanted to do some imaging. I was, in a way, relieved to see a professional finally having the same concerns as I was, but something in the back of my head was still hoping he’d say the same as the others, and we could just go home. That wasn’t the case, though.
They sent us home while they tested on her. We made tea, and it got cold. We waited for a phone call. Eventually, it came, and it wasn’t good news. They told us that Sophie had two blockages in her intestines - one that they believed to be a cancerous tumor, and one that I think they said appeared to be a build-up of minerals. They told us that we could look into surgery, or have her put to sleep, and that it was our decision, and they would call us when we could pick her up.
I’m not exaggerating when I say that I have never cried more than I cried that day. Waiting to pick Sophie up from the vet was the strangest feeling - it felt like my concerns had been justified after so long, and a wave of truth had bowled me over. It felt like she was already gone somehow, even though I knew I’d be seeing her again in an hour. Everything else in the world was blurred out, and all that was left was Sophie.
When they handed her back to me through the car window in her carrier, I immediately unzipped it and let her lay on me, hugging her tight. She seemed happier and healthier than she had in such a long time because of the painkillers and hydration drip they’d given her - her eyes seemed clearer, her face more filled out, and she was purring up a storm. It almost hurt even more to see her that way - the thought of potentially having to say goodbye while seeing her so alert and so alive ripped me apart, and I started sobbing uncontrollably (an action that I’ll admit is being replicated as I type this), and Sophie...oh, that sweet, sweet, wonderful cat. She licked the tears off my cheeks.
Sadly, this was the last time I saw Sophie so excited about life. We brought her home and started the difficult journey of processing and making decisions for the week to come. It was ripping me up inside to even consider having her put to sleep - it felt like I was giving up on her. She was my baby, how could I not do whatever I could to keep her with me? We decided to look into the surgery she would need and see if it was possible.
The next two days were weirdly exhausting for being spent mostly on the couch in our pajamas. Dan took off of work most of the week, and we set up our couch with every one of Sophie’s favorite blankets, making things as comfortable and easy as we could for her. There was constant googling (I still have vets and surgery centers in my google suggestions today) and numerous phone calls. The wonderful urgent care vet that treated her initially gave us a suggestion of a place that we could get her an abdominal ultrasound, but they were a non-appointment veterinarian with which we would have to drop Sophie off and leave her there until they had a chance to care for her, which could possibly be a couple days. The establishment also had horrible reviews, and they were famous for not keeping pet’s owners in the loop. I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving her with strangers while not knowing what was going on with her when she was in such a fragile state, and we started looking elsewhere.
In the meantime, I was on high alert to Sophie’s every breath. Every time she got down from the couch, I would follow her - if she went to the kitchen, I would give her a spoonful of food. If she went to the litter box, I would watch and make sure she wasn’t in any pain. If she wanted to get up to a higher sleeping spot, I would help her do so. We dedicated every moment to Sophie. She was given as many cuddles as she could want, and was denied no treats and given no time-outs (even when she stole a whole fried egg off of my plate one morning - though I do have a scar on my finger from where she tried to grab it from my hand).
Dan and I took turns crying and being strong. I forced myself to have a morning routine; Wake up. Put on clean pajamas. Brush teeth and hair. Give Sophie her pain medicine. Start a load of laundry. Sweep floors, do basic pet care. Make coffee. The rest of the day was mostly spent attending to Sophie and watching whatever happy tv shows I could use to escape (I must have watched through Molang on Netflix at least twice).
A few days passed like this and we still weren’t able to find anywhere that could give Sophie an abdominal ultrasound on short notice. Sophie was starting to go downhill again. She was getting weaker - she wasn’t able to jump onto Dan’s desk chair anymore without help, so we placed it next to the couch so she could use it as a step. We tried giving her her favorite toys and some catnip, but she seemed disinterested at best. My research had told me that even if we were able to get her the surgery she needed, she would likely only live a few more months, mostly spent in recovery. With her being so frail, I was also afraid she wouldn’t even make it home again. In between my vet googling, I was starting to search for how to deal with the loss of a pet and I read this quote in an article: “It’s always better to say goodbye one day too early than one minute too late.” And so, we decided that was best.
It’s a unique experience to be able to really say and do everything you want to do with a pet before it passes away. We were given the gift of time, but I’m still not sure if that made it easier or harder. I spent one night staying up ridiculously late with my hand in her fur, just feeling her breathe. I talked to her for hours and told her how much she meant to me and how much I would miss her. I told her my favorite memories with her, thanked her for always being there when I needed someone, and told her how beautiful she was. I told her I was sorry for letting her down. I cried, and she slept.
Dan and I found a great in-home euthanasia service and starting preparing things. We pressed her little paws into clay and framed it. We made plans to have her cremated so we could keep her ashes. We purchased lockets for her fur, as well. Dan made the big phone call, setting up an appointment for the upcoming Friday - we had a little time left. We started making plans for things like her last meal and her last night. I went back and forth between feeling put together and making arrangements and weeping to Dan that I didn’t want to think about it and it was all too much. Unfortunately, we had less time than we thought we did.
On Tuesday that week, she really wasn’t doing well. She wasn’t keeping her food down anymore, and couldn’t stay on her feet for long. She was laying on Dan’s lap that morning when I suggested that maybe it was time. I couldn’t watch her struggle, and even her pain medication didn’t seem to be doing much. I went back and forth for a bit, wondering if it was more selfish on my part to keep her around, or to let her go. But, I just kind of knew - I couldn’t imagine her pulling through another three days. We made the call to reschedule to that afternoon.
I knew that if I wanted her to have a good last meal, now was the time. I was worried that she wouldn’t be able to keep it down, but knew I at least had to try. I chopped up some raw chicken and mixed it with her favorite wet food, then topped it with shredded cheese, greek yogurt, sprinkles, and a wedge of watermelon. My heart was both so full and so broken as I watched her excitedly devour it. And by some miracle, she kept it down, too.
Dan and I spent the last few hours sitting on the kitchen floor with her. She wanted to lay on the kitchen rug, and we obliged. I softly pet her head, and the minutes passed. As the time drew nearer, I scooped her up and placed her on Dan’s lap on the couch instead - she gently collapsed, letting her weight fall completely against his legs. When the vet arrived, she slowly rose and walked to the edge of the couch, giving her hand a friendly sniff. I was glad she got to greet one more guest, especially since she hadn’t been able to meet anyone in such a long time.
She left this world peacefully, in her favorite bed, with her head resting in Dan’s hands. I can’t tell you how glad I am that it happened that way, and that she was warm and comfortable and loved with a belly full of her favorite foods when she passed. She deserved nothing less.
It’s been strange living without her, and I still think I see her out of the corner of my eye at least a few times a week. I think losing her has made both of us even more grateful, not only for the time that we did have with her, but for our remaining pets. We’ve made great quality of life changes for both our guinea pigs and our cat, Charlie, since then. But, while a lot of our apartment has been updated to better suit Charlie, one spot remains as it was, untouched - Sophie’s favorite bed, where she slept her last sleep, will remain where it is, at least for now. Even if people think it’s silly (hell, even if I think it’s silly), it’ll be there...just in case she wants to visit.
