At 2:00 a.m. on Good Friday I found myself racing up I-95 to an emergency veterinarian’s office with my much-loved 3-year-old cat, Pete, belted into his carrier beside me on the front seat. Within hours he’d suddenly grown very sick, and progressed rapidly from vomiting and lethargic to moaning and completely unable to walk.
At 4:30 a.m. I made the trek back home with an empty carrier in the backseat.
At 6:00 a.m. I finally fell asleep.
At 8:30 a.m. the vet’s call awoke me with news that Pete’s bladder had ruptured and fluid was filling his abdomen.
At 10:00 a.m. DH and I sat in a private room holding Pete and crying. It was too late to save him. When we were ready, the vet said, we should flick a light switch in that private room for the nurse, who would arrive prepared with the needle.
When the time felt right I simply nodded toward the switch. DH flicked it. We didn’t say a word.
At 10:30 a.m. I held Pete in my arms as the nurse plunged the needle into his IV. He was ever so slightly purring. Pete’s head instantly dropped onto the crook of my arm, he stopped purring, and I felt his life leave his body.
At 1:00 p.m. DH and I buried him beside my dad’s dog in his backyard.
And today I am here, completely heartbroken and blindsided by this loss. I firmly believe that animals do go to heaven, and that Pete is there now, restored and pain-free. It feels like there’s a giant hole in my heart, but I take comfort in knowing that God cares, even for Pete’s small kitty life.
May you rest in peace, my sweet Pete, until we meet again.
“Are not two sparrows sold for a cent? And yet not one of them will fall to the ground apart from your Father.”