When my son was nine, he asked for a sibling. I negotiated him down to a pet and Mogget arrived in our lives as a two-month-old domestic short-hair kitten. Eighteen years and three months later, she stopped eating. And, within a week, drinking.
At the vet’s, I learn she’s lost a kilogram since her last visit – how did I not notice? The vet is kind. She dances around what needs to be said. I tell her Mogget continues to walk up and down our stairs, wakes me every day at 4.55am by bulldozing my head, loves lying in the sun.
“That’s all well and good,” she says. “But the bottom line is she’s not eating or drinking. And when that happens …”
I pinch the palm of my hand really, really hard.
“… you may need to make a tough decision over the next week or so.”
She gives me a tin of high-calorie cat food and a business card for a “lovely vet who comes to your house”. The receptionist makes a fuss over Mogget as I pay my bill and study the floor through filmy eyes. When I look up, there is a box of tissues on the counter.
Mogget is my son’s cat but, like many parents, when he left home, I inherited her. I’ve spent more time with her than with any other living thing. Now I have the responsibility of bringing that time to an end. I try to call Amy, the home vet, but keep breaking down. How do you ask someone to come and kill a family member? I go on to her website. One sentence catches my eye: “It’s better to be a month early than an hour late.”
I call. Amy says she’ll be there at 10am tomorrow.
There are apparently 5.3 million pet cats in Australia.
Mogget is just one of millions. But to us, she is the one. She was there when my partner died of melanoma, when my son left home (and boomeranged in and out again). She soaks up my bad moods, angst, illnesses and purrs them away. She is non-judgmental, Zen. I learned how not to sweat the small stuff by watching her live in the moment.
Tomorrow arrives and she bumps me awake at 4.55am. She walks downstairs and into the garden, stopping by her water bowl. I wonder if she may finally drink but she just stares at what I think is a bunch of sodden leaves. I step closer and see it’s a cane toad. I grab the bowl and throw the toad over the fence. Mogget is not going to die today by licking one of those. She walks the perimeter of the house. Doing her last rounds. Back inside, I put some yoghurt on my fingers and she licks it off. Her last meal.
‘I talk to Mogget and tell her how much she means to me.’ Photograph: Gayle Bryant/The Guardian
At 8am, a friend texts me a heart emoji. Ten minutes later another friend sends the same. I wonder if I should remind my son, but then he messages some words of comfort. I can’t stop crying. I didn’t cry this much when my father recently died and I wonder about that for a moment. At 9.49am Mogget walks on to the deck and stares out at the road. A minute later, I hear the vet drive up and I watch Mogget watching the car reverse down my driveway.
I steel myself as I walk down the stairs, but by the time I open the door, I’m rust.
Amy doesn’t look at me as I step outside. She is talking to Mogget. “She’s been waiting for me,” she says. Whether that’s true or not, it’s a comfort.
We go upstairs and Amy sits on the floor and lights a candle. Mogget comes over to me and meows to be picked up. I put her on my lap and she sits quietly, waiting. Amy explains she’ll give Mogget a sedative that will calm her but she’ll still be able to hear. She doesn’t move as the needle goes into the scruff of her neck. “She’s so ready,” Amy says.
I talk to Mogget and tell her how much she means to me. Amy waits for permission to inject the dose that will take her permanently away. I don’t wait too long. And Amy does what she needs to do. She tells me I’m doing “really well”, then checks Mogget’s pulse. “She’s passed,” she says. I nod slowly and keep stroking her.
I’m encouraged to stay with her for as long as I like, so I carry her from room to room. My radio is on and I softly sing the song that’s playing: “Ain’t no sunshine when she’s gone / And she’s always gone too long.”
Mogget’s final day before being put down. Photograph: Gayle Bryant/The Guardian
I take her outside and place her on the bed Amy has set up in the back of her car. She looks like she’s asleep, except I know that’s not how she looks when she’s asleep. Amy gives me a hug and I walk back inside. The song is still playing: “This house just ain’t no home / Anytime she goes away.”
The next morning, I wake at 4.55 and stumble through the day, packing and then unpacking everything Mogget-related – bowls, collar, toys. Do I want reminders of her around the house or don’t I? I can’t decide. Nothing in the house now needs my care, and I feel useless and rudderless. I receive a card from Amy that quotes Helen Keller: “What we once enjoyed and deeply loved we can never lose.”
Two weeks later, Mogget’s ashes come home. I buy a plant and dig a hole but cannot bring myself to put her ashes in it. The next day, I wake again at 4.55am. Mogget is gone but remains a part of me. I make a decision and pack her things away.
Gayle Bryant is a freelance writer and subeditor
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