How I Grieved for a Cat Over Long Distance

This year at age 30, I grieved for the first time. I grieved in honor of a sweet little tabby cat. She wasn’t even my cat, but she was family. Her name was Missy, and this is how I’m holding up. But first, a biography.

Missy died in April at a fairly old age. She was a feral rescue adopted from the SPCA specifically to serve as chief mouser to a small-town stableyard. Rats are a major stable pest because they ransack the horse food while bringing an assortment of parasites. Where traps, poison, ‘secure’ storage all fail, a stable cat usually prevails. Missy arrived at the stableyard and took a few weeks to get acquainted with her new territory. Then she murdered a bunch of rats and left their innards strewn about for their companions to discover. That was pretty much the end of the rat problem.

Traps can be evaded and can be less humane than letting a cat follow its predatory instincts. Rat poison is deadly to other animals and the environment when it goes right. Secure storage against rats? That’s an oxymoron. Our ancestors didn’t figure it out and neither have we. Missy was the ideal pest control professional. She marked the stables with her scent, deterring rats with the knowledge of a predator. She slept in the feed room like a dragon guarding its hoard. She got food, board, healthcare, and plenty of exercise.

Missy served as chief mouser for over a decade before retiring to a comfortable suburban home where I met her. She took part in the oldest (and possibly only) profession that humanity has successfully assigned to cats. It’s not lost on me that this tiny creature was gainfully employed for longer than I’ve been.

As many people learned during the COVID-19 pandemic, grieving for a loved one can be much more difficult without the luxury of proximity. That last piece of physical closeness we have with the newly-dead marks a starting point to a future without them. It places us in vicinity to other aggrieved people so that we can lock arms and cry together. Missy died with loved ones close by (including one labrador retriever that thought she liked him more than she did). Some of her loved ones were hundreds of miles away and only received the notification via text.

When I received that text, my first thoughts were in the neighborhood of surprise (she was so spry at her age) and anger (I should have been there). The latter thought was especially devastating because Missy and I were close friends. She was more receptive to touches and pets from me than some of the people she lived with. This relationship was probably helped by the fact that I regularly slipped her chicken from the dinner table, which was definitely against the rules. Without the privilege of being nearby when she died, I felt that my right to a healthy grieving process was stunted. I couldn’t be there to guide her to the next destination.

For the next few months, I did the logical thing: I cried frequently. I also captured brightness in between the tears. My last memory of Missy was a happy one. It was the day of departure from her house. The guest room I was staying in was her usual haunt so she was wandering around happily. She occupied my then-girlfriend’s open suitcase while we packed. When she lost interest in that, she slipped into a bookcase and we slow blinked at each other. She swished her tail idly like she always did when she was settled. There’s beauty in sharing a friendship with an animal that needs to be earned. Missy didn’t take an interest in people quickly, but we were good friends for the whole time I knew her.

When someone is relegated to memory without your presence, the main source of control you have over the situation is through memory. Fittingly, Missy died at home and was buried in the front yard she enjoyed exploring. My last memories of her were good ones. In fact, all of my memories of that little tabby were good. She was so very small but not just in the uwu smol bean way. She was a feral cat who was impregnated too young and birthed a litter before she was fully grown. This stunted her growth and she never outgrew her adolescent body. This only made her cuter in my eyes. I befriended her during her retirement and she was quite comfortable around me — by the standards of a rescued feral who lived most of her life alone. She had a habit of playfully biting and clawing at people (small cat, big prey drive) and chomped at me noticeably less. I took that as a sign of affection.

As months passed, one thing that was still missing in my grief was a feeling of closure. I wasn’t able to close her story in person. Knowing that she was buried in her favorite front yard, I hatched a plan for a small funerary rite. I couldn’t visit this year, so I commissioned an engraved rock to serve as her gravestone and passed it to my best friend who was travelling up. The gravestone was accompanied by a message for Missy, and an offering of birdseed for the garden wildlife. As one life ends, others are nourished.

With three seasons between her sudden death and today, I can say that I no longer randomly cry for her. There’s nothing wrong with crying; I just don’t do it when I feel good. Not crying randomly is a sign of healing for me. I remember her weekly via the small things: photos I took, my plush tabby, cat-related discussions with my besties.

I began this event in confusion and shock. I’ve never grieved until now and I was hamstrung by the lack of a ‘correct’ way to do it. There is no correct way to grieve, of course. Whichever one works is a good pick. By the time my bestie laid Missy’s gravestone and carried out my requested ceremony, all I sensed was a tender peace at the knowledge that Missy was utterly loved.

She is remembered for her playfulness, commitment to personal space, and diligent work ethic. She was a delightful little couch tiger and I will never regret slipping her those chicken pieces.

Favorite