Julie Jay: Saying goodbye to pets is a part of growing up — and being an adult too

This week we said goodbye to our cat, and whilst it is never easy, letting go of pets is an important part of growing up

Notwithstanding her decreasing ability to play with the boys, our cat Mollie still brought them so much joy. Picture: iStock 

THIS week, our cat Mollie passed away. Or should I say, the vet put her to sleep?

It has only been two days, and I have told the children the cat is still at the vet, because I’m putting off telling them for as long as humanly possible.

This morning, the five-year-old asked how long this visit was going to go on for, and I quickly changed the subject before he started joining the dots that Mollie had been close in cat years to celebrating a joint centenary with David Attenborough, and now suddenly, out of the blue, has gone on a mystery vacation.

I know I can only keep this going for a certain period of time, but for now, it is as worthy an explanation as any. If it materialises that my five-year-old has been duping me all this time when it comes to his reading homework and is, in fact, fully literate and reading this column, I’m sorry for lying to you about our darling Mollie. 

But also, you should be sorry for lying to me about how much help you needed wading through your Cairde Nua. I sometimes wake up in a cold sweat, repeating ‘Tá LúLú ag léim’ over and over again because we’ve been repeating this same sentence ad nauseam since September.

To be honest, I would have been quicker to put her to sleep were it not for the kids, because the thought of breaking the news to them when the vet delivered the sad news to me last Saturday filled me with dread.

Having pets and losing pets is all part of growing up, unless you are my husband, for whom this cat was his first pet at the ripe old age of 40. Saying goodbye to pets is heartbreaking stuff. 

I can remember the tears I cried, and my parents cried when burying cats and dogs out the back, but we got through it, as will my own kids.

On the subject of pet burials, Mollie has been laid to rest in my auntie’s garden, because I feel burying the cat in a garden which is not our forever home is a surefire way to ensure you never get a reference from a landlord again.

In the last few weeks, she had been declining more and more, but was still incredibly patient with the boys, especially the two-and-a-half-year-old.

For as long as he was able, he was very fond of carrying poor old Mollie up and down the hall, despite the cat being nearly as tall as himself and his upper body strength being so lacking that he was less carrying her and more half-dragging her before I inevitably would intervene.

Notwithstanding her decreasing ability to play with the boys, she still brought them so much joy. The toddler’s favourite hobby was to open up numerous cat food packets at any given time, because his biggest fear was that she would feel even a hint of hunger. 

This was a clear projection on my toddler’s part, because his own appetite is such that I’m fairly sure he would eat me if I stood still for long enough.

As much as having pets was such a big part of my childhood, losing them was too. My first memory of my dad crying was when we had to put our dog Guinness down. The dog was so called because he was white and black, and if my father’s social life was anything to go by, he probably had shares in the company.

Seeing my dad cry was to realise that our dog was really gone, and my first real introduction to the permanency of death. 

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In an attempt to ease the pain, my parents brought me to a well-known fast food chain, which I won’t break the boycott by mentioning here, but safe to say I haven’t been able to look at a Big Mac without thinking back to that sad day and saying goodbye to a pet who had truly been my best friend.

For me, the cat was company after the kids went to bed, that blissful hour of watching Real Housewives together and eating biscuits. She was also a constant reminder to the kids of the importance of being gentle and kind, and how to respect an animal’s personal space (admittedly, the toddler never quite got to grips with the latter).

Already, numerous people have reminded me that the boys will be fine and that perhaps we should immediately fill the void left by our cat by getting another. But I think to do so, while distracting the boys and I’m sure delighting them also, would be to do a disservice to Mollie, who will go down in history as our very first family pet.

When the dreaded conversation with the kids can no longer be put off, I will remind them that Mollie has gone to a better place — a place where there is plenty of roast chicken (her final meal), Real Housewives on repeat, and no toddlers dragging her up and down halls purely for the craic of it.

Mollie, other pets may come, but you will never be topped. Enjoy some well-earned peace and quiet in the big catbed in the sky.