They say it doesn’t get easier—and while that’s true, it does become more familiar. In that familiarity, there’s comfort. You start to understand what to expect. You learn to make more informed, compassionate decisions.
You come to know the cycle: the grief, the anger, the acceptance. You learn when to fight for your beloved fur child—and when to let them be.
I’ve done it all. I’ve gone to the ends of the Earth trying to save them. I was tired—angry—watching people who didn’t seem to value their cats or dogs, who wouldn’t spend the time or money. And yes, I judged them.
I’d find the newest treatment, poke and prod, force concoctions down their throats—desperate to heal them, only to watch them suffer more. And sometimes, it worked. Sometimes I won. And in those moments, it felt worth it—but I never knew the outcome in advance.
Over the years, as animals came and went, I became more discerning. I began to listen more deeply—to them, to myself. I grew more aware of their dignity, their wishes. Maybe, in my desperate need to heal them, I was really trying to cheat death. But I couldn’t.
I’m not saying we shouldn’t get second or even third opinions. I’m not saying we shouldn’t explore functional or alternative medicine—because I’ve seen miracles. I believe in them.
But I’ve also learned to be still. To look within. To hear the animals. And that’s not always easy.
My nine-year-old cat—healthy, happy, silly, sweet, and a lovable pain in the ass—was recently diagnosed with an aggressive form of lymphoma. We saw every specialist: cardiology, internal medicine, oncology. I started him on medications, but never began chemo. The prognosis was poor, and I suspected an underlying lung issue—his breathing hovered around 35 breaths per minute.
He grew thin. Exhausted. And I made the decision to euthanize him at home, as I do for all my animals. A vet once told me, “Better a week too early than a day too late.” And I’ve lived through a day too late.
He passed peacefully in my arms.
I miss that little man. He had the whole world convinced he loved them most. I never had the heart to tell visitors that if you had a lap, he was yours.
