My cat died on Friday

My cat died on Friday. One of my cats. I have two. Had.

It was sudden, quick, horrible, and in my arms, and now I feel funny about my arms. Like they betrayed me somehow, these strong, capable limbs I use to love and to care, vessels, instead, of dying.

It’s impossible not to consider that I may have killed her, but the reasoning part of my brain tells me that she surely had an underlying condition, that she has weathered worse, that I lifted her only to return her to safety, and that I did so with gentle care, aware that she did not like being carried, that she was frightened. But not aware that she was at risk. Not at all.

It was sudden, quick, merciful. The dying I would wish for her. No long drawn out suffering, no painful decisions or trips to the vet. No fading vigour.

She was only 8, she, and her sister. Rescued at four or five months, unsocialised, scared of their shadows. Her sister was clearly the runt, strange shaped tiny cat that she is. Now she hides under the bed and I tempt her out for meat, which they almost never have. Had. She has a delicate stomach. She has a delicate constitution. She always looked to her sister for confidence.

It was sudden, catastrophic, horrible. I cannot describe the scream she made. A scream is a thing beyond words, and words can never make the world arrest itself like a scream does. Comes back in the dark and stops you from sleeping, a scream does.

She probably had ten or fifteen seconds of awareness of pain. She was dead within a minute or two. Her sister saw me place her dying body on a cushion, unsure at that point what was happening. Disbelieving. Now she looks to the spot, when she comes out from under the bed.

It was unfair, quick, horrible. I am unsentimental about what happens after death. Our cat deserved longer, but she doesn’t know that she was cheated. Will never know she was cheated. Will never know anything anymore.

But her sister, who hides under the bed is left behind. I always thought she would go first, anxious, highly strung little snippet of timidity that she is. And my daughter, who framed her school day with strokes and “head boofs”, regulating herself through the mutual pleasure of a love expressed in touch rather than words. My son, who shows so little, but stayed by my side like he was two years old again all weekend. Me. I am left behind. No one waiting for me outside the shower, or shadowing me in the garden. No one to "birrup" at me as I arrive home, or to lean against my thigh when I take my rest. I am left behind.

It was sudden, quick, horrible, and in my arms. And now I feel funny about my arms. I left the body at the vet. I don’t know why I went to the vet, I knew she was dead as I lifted her into the carrier, but she had been well just three minutes before. My arms moved more quickly than my brain.

I took the children to see her body the next day. My partner cried. I think it helps, to see. Demystifies. Seals off those “perhaps it’s a trick, a sick joke, a fake, a mistake. Not true” thoughts. I questioned myself, am I right? To take them? Am I wrong? These arms, you see, these capable arms have failed. But it was the right thing. Underling condition, said the vet. Okay to feel sad, she said. Angry. All at sea. Ok to cry. Here are some tissues. Take as long as you need.

And we touched her and we told her goodbye, the cat that died on Friday.