Pet Loss Taught Me to be Present with Death

In 2020, I fostered two neonatal kittens for my birthday, not knowing they were neonatal at the time. The organization I’d been approved to foster for had been sending emails blasts begging for fosters for litters of kittens, and while I saw their daily pleas, I didn’t want to commit to round-the-clock bottle feeding and stimulating. When a litter came in that was eating on their own and could be split into groups (there were nine altogether), I jumped at the chance. It was all I wanted for my birthday, so I picked up two of the tiny, black fuzzballs and brought them home. They were itty bitty in an average-sized, cardboard cat carrier. Our whole family gushed over them, cooing, observing their unique personalities and gently snuggling them when they allowed it. 

These brothers had been found under a bush in a parking lot near a very busy street in South Florida. Mama was nowhere to be found, and the county was called in. The bigger and fluffier of the two boys I fostered was clearly not happy. He curled up in a ball, far away and wanted to be left alone. He wouldn’t eat and had liquid diarrhea, while his runty brother ate dinner, ventured out, and announced his presence to everyone with tiny-but-mighty meows. We started calling that one Bruce Wayne. I brought the sickly brother back for medical care the following day and agreed he would stand a better chance at the clinic. And then there was one. 

Bruce Wayne couldn’t be left unattended, so when I drove his brother to the clinic, he stayed in a cardboard box on my bed, behind my husband as he worked at his desk in the same room. These were emergency work-from-home times and this little baby was giving our family a mental break from quarantine. We even spoiled him with a heated stuffed animal that mimicked a mother cat’s heartbeat. After learning that brushing kittens with a toothbrush reminds them of their mother’s tongue, we took turns doing that, too. We brought his box into whatever room we were in at the time, attempting to feed him periodically and changing the towels when he went potty. He started eating less and pooping more, though, and he would let out pathetic little cries each time. As the day went on, he became more and more lethargic. We took him outside into the warm sun, but he uncharacteristically tried to hide himself away behind patio furniture. 

I started reading updates about the litter and many of them were struggling. A few had died. Panleuk. That’s a word no one with a kitten wants to hear because it’s very unlikely they will survive it. Feline panleukopenia, sometimes called feline parvo, is especially dangerous to kittens and unvaccinated animals. This litter was completely unable to fend for themselves, living in filth and huddled together. Due to the contagious nature of panleuk, it was likely Bruce Wayne had it, too. By now it was after clinic hours and we were to follow “fading kitten protocol.” Yes, that’s a thing. It seems that very young kittens have little chance of survival without their mothers. Maybe this mother knew they weren’t going to make it or maybe she was sick herself. 

So my husband and I took turns holding him in a “burrito wrap” using a heating pad as instructed, syringing sugar water into his mouth every 3 minutes, and rubbing it on his gums when he stopped opening his mouth. He became completely limp and seemed to be drifting away, but would suddenly shoot up and cry, signaling to us that he had gone to the bathroom yet again. We kept him clean and continued the cycle into the night. I held him on my chest for as long as I could, but finally had to put him somewhere he’d be safe with the heating pad, with the intent to check on him. When I finally did fall asleep, I was awoken by kitty screams around 2:00 a.m. and found him writhing in pain. Heartbreaking is the only word for it. He was fighting, twisting and contorting his body, while meowing like an angry tiger. I held him while speaking with a veteran volunteer on the phone. My eyes and nose ran uncontrollably as this stranger comforted me in the middle of the night, the day after my birthday. I had gone to the organization’s Facebook group in desperation, asking if anyone was up who could help me. Surprisingly, several ladies messaged me with incredible kindness and one called me. This woman virtually “sat” with me through the process, having been there herself many times. I just wanted someone to tell me what to do, and hated the thought that he could possibly be struggling unnecessarily. But while I was busy looking for absolution from my perceived failure, he died in my lap. 

Why didn’t I trust myself? Why was I so afraid of his pain and inevitable death? Sure, I wondered if it wasn’t actually death or if he was just going to be in agony for hours until I could get him help, but deep down I knew he was dying. I could have held him against my body and purred to him, sang to him, brushed him with his toothbrush…but instead I was distracted as he transitioned out of this world. I immediately wished I could have a do-over and be present for him. But then, I wouldn’t have experienced the incredible gift of compassion those strangers gave me as a birthday gift. Grief has a way of taking away your faith in humanity because you have a lower tolerance for the worldly bullshit that others seem to be consumed by. Grief also has a way of restoring your faith when others find meaning and beauty in the smallest aspects of life on Earth, which may actually be what we’re here for after all.