I think one of the hardest things about losing a family pet is helping small people with their grief while labouring under your own.
Today two neighbours knocked on my door.
“Do you own a black and white cat?” For a split second there the answer was no and the conversation would have been over. “Sorry, I mean a grey and white cat”
“I’m sorry but I’ve got some really bad news.”
That bad news involved a broken tail, a shattered pelvis and no way he could be saved.
When Morgan died, Riley became used to the idea that cats live for a certain amount of time and then they might die from old age or sickness.
“Why did Floyd have to die? Three years is not a long time.”
“No baby. It’s really not.”
Five seconds later she was asking if she could get a new kitten. Which might seem callous. But it’s not. It’s her grief. It is vast. It is insurmountable. And she will drop in and out of it for months. Sometimes thinking about a new kitten is the only way she can see clear of all of that. I know the feeling.