My Friend's Journey to Overcoming the Grief of Losing a Pet

"The moment you decide to adopt a cat is the moment you plant a seed of sadness in your heart. The process of the seed sprouting, maturing, and withering is the evidence of our love."

My little cat, Xiao Bai, passed away from kidney failure in July.

He left quietly, as if afraid to make me sad. He quietly slipped away in a corner.

He was tormented by illness for several days. Despite all efforts to save him, death could not be stopped. I was heartbroken that I couldn't change the outcome, yet I was clear that death was a relief from his suffering.

Since last year, after he fell from the fifth floor and was rescued, his life was on a countdown. Taking him back from Death was like entering a wager with time.

The veterinarian comforted me: "You have been a good owner. If you hadn't tried so hard to save him, his life would have ended back then."

Indeed, the subsequent time was all about reclaiming him from Death. I was fortunate to have his resilient companionship.

After the fall a year ago, Xiao Bai suffered from lung hemorrhage and broke his front teeth. I spent most of my salary on his hospitalization and begged a friend to carefully take care of him until he recovered. At that time, I was also living away from home, and Xiao Bai was being cared for by a friend. After the accident, my friend felt very guilty, and I felt more remorseful, doubting my own capability to take care of a pet properly. My emotions fluctuated with his condition, and only after he slowly recovered did I begin to relax.

Surviving such a calamity brings blessings. I thought I should take good care of this little guy in the future.

Later, I rented a spacious apartment. My colleagues said I was a bit wasteful being alone. But for someone troubled about where to place Xiao Bai, it felt like the end of a tumultuous journey. Even when on holidays, I worried about where to place him, but at least now I could give him his own room and a living room where he could roam freely. This was the highest level of care I could provide as someone just starting my career.

During this time, I gradually acquired many items related to Xiao Bai. After he left, I was stunned and couldn't immediately pack up all his belongings scattered around. There were unfinished cat treats and food, unopened cat litter, and little balls he loved to play with that were still marked with his bites...

Memories opened all the valves, flooding my mind—

Xiao Bai had a great personality, very affectionate, and could be adorable and playful. Every friend who met him loved him. Even if he shed his fur all over you, you couldn't resist giving him a cuddle. 

I know that I love him. I have a bad temper, and when I'm stressed at work, I get angry and don't want to pay attention to him. Xiao Bai would persistently nudge his head against me, asking for a pat, but I would push him away ruthlessly. He would wag his tail to show affection, but I would ignore it. He would gently lie on my back, pat my head, and touch my face. When I turned to look at him, his pupils would dilate and contract with the light, and in his adorable eyes, he saw only me. What bad intentions could a little cat have? He just wanted to make his owner happy. I was often amused by his human-like behaviors, inexplicably surrendering to his gentleness.

Some say that owning a pet is pursuing a kind of "certain" love, and it seems to be true. As long as you provide food and water, accompany them daily without complicated emotional processes, they become your best friend. Even more wonderfully, cats themselves can bring endless healing, and "expressing love unburdenedly and freely" towards them can repeatedly heal us.

This need to give and be needed allowed me to survive. In the often turbulent adult world, just watching Xiao Bai lick his paws and stretch lazily provided me with a sense of "certainty" and security. I am deeply grateful to this world for the lesson on "intimate relationships," where Xiao Bai played an important role, making me feel that both "being loved" and "loving" are beautiful things.

Regarding owning a cat, I have heard some opposing voices—"Being a pet owner comes with responsibilities for the pet's entire life," "Have you thought it through? If you can't provide a stable life, don't take on this responsibility"—etc. At that time, I was determined to take on the responsibility of caring for his latter half of life, but I still couldn't take care of him properly. I think I won't adopt a cat again. If I don't involve myself in his karma, I won't have to worry about him anymore.

"If you can avoid intense joy, naturally there will be no sorrow."

"If we never meet, naturally there will be no parting."

That evening after work, there is no longer a little cat waiting at the door to greet me. There won't be any more. The little cat that used to sit at the bedroom door scratching with his paws whenever he heard my voice, running wildly towards me, the little cat that would yawn and stay up late with me, cuddling together—gone...

I cried for a long time, missing all the moments he accompanied me, missing his clingy personality, missing our times together. It was so painful and I really miss him. Before he passed, he always wanted to stay close to me, knowing his time was short. He stayed close, making it hard for me to move, sitting with me all afternoon. His condition worsened, and I knew he was about to die. For three days and nights, he didn't eat, drink, or eliminate. He was only sustained by the steroid medication prescribed by the doctor. The subcutaneous resistance infusion was already ineffective. Watching him suffer, I couldn't do anything.

Every breath, every blink, every time I speak, I am reminded of his departure. Standing, sitting, lying down—I keep trying to convince myself to accept that he has left, but when I close my eyes, I still see the scene of his passing.

When others comfort you, they often say, "Everything will pass," thinking that sadness can be healed quickly. They don't understand that we think about the departure of our loved ones or cherished things every day. They never come back, never living with us, so the wounds in our hearts repeatedly tear and never heal. We can gradually get used to living with these scars, maintaining health and happiness, but we cannot stop the recurring waves of sadness.

Later, a passage in a book healed me. It said: "We must learn to let go instead of immersing ourselves in sorrow. Having beautiful memories is enough; we must allow heaven to take away the things around us." Simply put, we have no right to own anything—parents, family, pets don't belong to us because their lifespan and health are not in our hands. Due to our inner "desires," we implicitly accept that they belong to themselves. People are constantly accepting and recognizing themselves through the process of being given by and taken back by heaven.

They say: "Actually, it's the end of your fate with the cat, a journey that must come to an end. But love does not disappear; it remains in your heart."

"We have this segment of beautiful memories, and love takes root and sprouts in our hearts. This is the most precious thing your cat has given you. Don't be sad."

Others also say:

• The cat's death is to protect the owner from disaster and misfortune.
• On your way to see someone, you suddenly see the sun shining.
• After a long period of damp weather and gloomy mood, it brightens up again.
• A friend's little cat has a gentle personality just like yours.
• You wouldn't get angry if you share your cat treats with it. 

I know

Everything in the world has its time to come and go

Between cause and effect, there are also fate and connections

Sometimes life is very bitter

Thank you for being my little sweetie