They tell you how much it will hurt to lose a person—but they never warn you how much it will hurt to lose your heart animal.
Len was rescued from the side of the road by my neighbor. Shelley saw her sitting there and stopped her car. Len came to her without hesitation and together they made their way to Shore Lane.
Len was so malnourished that it was scary to pick her up. You could feel all her bones and she hissed many who came close to her.
When I went to Shelley’s to meet her for the first time, I was smitten.
I think Len was too. She leaned in towards me and even though I didn’t know her name or that I would adopt her, she won my heart over in a minute.
At that time in my life, I was going through a lot. I’d just been diagnosed with bipolar II disorder and was grieving the loss of Jean. I also had just moved into the shoe and even though it’s a beautiful home, the memories of Jean haunted me and I locked myself in the bedroom on most nights.
But on a night in December, Shelley and Bernard invited me up for supper. They wanted to share some news—they thought I should adopt the malnourished black kitty from the side of the road.
At that point I had no plans to buy The Shoe and planned to move back to town. After some checking with my roommates on Victoria Street, I decided to adopt her.
Len came home with me a few days before Christmas in a little yellow carrier Shelley loaned me. My life would never be the same.
The first night in The Shoe—the hissing cat from up the hill snuggled next to me and went to sleep. Her soft fur brushed against my cheeks and I felt less alone with my grief and broken brain.
Len was perfect company. She loved the shoe, and bit by bit I left the bedroom and would sit with her in front of the windows or on the couch. Each night when I came home she would be waiting on the table for me with eager anticipation.
I loved her and I loved her company.
The next few years brought major life changes—buying the shoe unexpectedly, dating, then swearing off dating, roommates, and leaving the church I was raised in. Len was there through it all. And at the end of every workday, she was there to welcome me home. When I went to bed, she was there with a purr and a snuggle.
But she did more than that. Len could sense my panic attacks. I remember once, I was standing in the shoe with a guy I’d just started dating and I had an attack. Len was in the other room and the minute it started, she came running to my side. The guy couldn’t believe it.
“HOW did she know what is happening?” He asked.
I couldn’t tell him. But I did know that she sensed them often and would always rush to my side. She also stayed by my side when I was actively suicidal and hypo-manic in the worst way. When I was irritable and angry. When I was a wreck behind closed doors--Len was there.
Len was always there with unconditional love. I don’t mean the kind of unconditional love where there’s annoyance and fights and then love again. I mean Len loved me no matter what state I was in. Len made me feel needed and important. When I wanted to die, I would look at her and knew without a doubt that she would miss me. I knew I made her life better. I had no confidence I made anyone’s life better, except hers. When in the depths of planning to take my life, there at the top of the list of reasons not to was Len’s name.
I wasn’t the perfect cat mom. In fact, I would say I was average at best. I’d never had an indoor cat before and the responsibility was a lot. I know how often I failed her.
But Len didn’t seem to mind. When I climbed into bed, she was there right beside me. Whenever I called her name, she was there.
She became my best friend.
At times it felt like she was all I had. Not for lack of friends or family, but because my brain was so broken she was all I could see and understand.
I remember sitting on the floor one day and looking at her. I loved her so much. I was feeling bitter and scared about losing people in my life. I looked at Len and thought to myself that she was seven. I have pretty bad luck, so I told myself I couldn’t guarantee perfect health for 16 years like my family cat, but I would give her ten.
Weeks later, Len got sick.
She’d always thrown up a lot—much more than any other cat I knew, but I thought it was okay. I’d taken her to the vet the year before and they said she seemed in good health. I trusted that.
But in July, Len stopped eating. I couldn’t coax her to eat even her favourite foods. After days of reading on the internet, I took her in for what I thought was a broken tooth.
It wasn’t.
She went from the regular vet to the VSC where I was told she had a tumor. At first I thought she was going to be put down, but after discussing it with the vet tech, I decided to treat her pancreatitis and save up for a surgery to remove her tumor. Foolishly, I’d never thought pet insurance was needed.
I knew she might die, but I wanted whatever time was left with her. I thought it would be weeks, but those weeks slipped into months. She needed pills twice a day, every day. I planned my schedule around it and couldn’t travel—but it was all worth it for more time.
Months passed and she continued to live. There were moments of terror, but she was still there. In November I took her in and they told me they were surprised the tumor hadn’t grown as much as they expected—it was still there, but I still had time to save up more for the surgery.
I was ecstatic about the slow growth. My heart was bursting. And in that moment, I decided that she was going to live. The surgery was going to save her. I would save the money and it would be removed. Len was going to get through it.
Of course the surgery was going to be risky, but I felt like she had a fighting chance. I knew the recovery would be hard, but I told work I needed to stay home with her while she got better. I trusted the vets to do it.
In February, someone I knew had a complete blockage in their intestines. I went to visit them in the hospital and witnessed the pain they were in. Coincidentally, it was what would happen to Len if I let the tumor get too big. I sat beside the person in the hospital and told myself I would never, ever let my cat experience the pain one of the strongest people I knew was going through.
I went home from the hospital and booked the surgery. A few days later, Len threw up. With the memory of the hospital fresh in my mind, I called the vet in a panic. They decided to move the surgery up.
I told work what was happening, and prepared for the surgery.
I didn’t think she was going to die. I was scared she was going to, but I thought I was irrational and over reactive. I knew people were probably sick of hearing about my cat and my illness has a way of making me more emotional than regular people.
The morning of the surgery, I was scared—but told myself to be rational. I didn’t spend more time in bed. I didn’t spend too much extra time on the couch. I went in early.
She was in the carrier she hated so much and I could hardly bare to see her fear. I felt so, so awful but promised her I would be back. I promised her I would take her home.
I will never forget the look of fear in her eyes when I walked away. I almost rushed back to her, but thought I was over reacting. I thought she was going to die once— I wanted to trust she wouldn’t this time..
When the call came in that the tumor couldn’t be removed, my world stopped. I was sitting in Chapters waiting for news about how it went. The vet told me it would be kinder to let her go instead of bringing her home. I rushed back to see her.
The sobs that wracked my body will likely never happen again. She was still on the table as I petted her soft fur and thanked her for being there for me – unable to hardly breathe through the sobs. I couldn’t give them permission to inject it. I just told them to do it because I couldn’t give them permission. I looked away with my hands on her.
Then she was gone. And I won’t go into why, but I still blame myself for never getting one last ultrasound.
My best friend. My Leonard Love. My precious pet that had loved me through some of the worst and best moments of my life. Gone. I failed her. I loved her more than anyone else could have, but in the end I failed her. The screams that echoed throughout the shoe that afternoon were louder than every other scream that has left my lips.
They don’t tell you how hard it will be.
You have to go back to work after a day or two. Some can’t even take that. You have to talk to people who don’t understand what it’s like. You have to pretend it’s easier to get over than a person. You have to go home and look at the spot where they would be waiting for you. You have to look at their food dish and litter box. You have to clean the up the fur around the house. You know some people will think you’re over reaction. You have to move on.
Many expect you to be fine. There’s no flowers. There’s no funeral with an eulogy or celebration of life. No songs or memories from people who loved them the same way. For the most part there is silence.
Because a pet isn’t supposed to hurt as much as a person. People are offended if you say it is. Some will talk about how silly it is to act like you’re grieving a human.
Len saw parts of me I’d been afraid to show anyone. Len loved me when I woke up in the middle of the night screaming. Len loved me when I talked to the walls. Len loved me when I was broke. Len loved me when I left the church. Len loved me when I was depressed and hypo-manic.
Len gave me a reason to live. Len made me WANT to live. When I had nothing left inside of me, I lived for Len.
When she left this world on February 27, most of the world expected to me to keep on as though the grief wasn’t valid enough because she was an animal. Whether or not they understand, I grieve her every single day.
All throughout my house are paintings and photos of her. People ask me if I hate having them there. I don’t. They remind me that unconditional love is real and that I was loved at my worst.
I have so much more to say about her, but this is all I can get out.
For some people, losing a pet can be just as hard as losing a human.
I wish someone had warned me about that.
Leonard Love
February 27, 2020