The quiet heartbreak of losing a pet.
I have started and stopped writing this more times than I can count.
I am not even sure where to begin, because losing her feels like losing a piece of myself.
I adopted Lucy from a shelter in Colorado right after high school. She had been abandoned and was estimated to be around two or three years old. I was just becoming an adult around this time. I had no idea what my life would look like yet. I most definitely did not realize I was bringing home the most loving soul I would ever know.
We had about ten years together. She was around fourteen when she passed. I never had her exact age since I adopted her from a shelter. Ten years somehow feels like a lifetime and not nearly long enough at the same time.
I love all of my animals so much (I also have two male kitties that I got after Lucy that I adore dearly). But Lucy was different and extra special to me. I had family pets growing up, but she was the first pet who was fully mine. My first real companion. My first baby.
She loved with her whole body. If you were sitting down, she was on you. Curled into your chest. Pressed against your face. Purring nonstop. She did not believe in personal space. Sometimes we would laugh and gently push her away because she would not get out of our faces!
But that was just who she was. She loved intensely.
She was there for me through so many milestones and tough times in my life. Before I moved to Florida. Before I became a wife. Before I became a mom. Before Cooking Katie Lady started. She knew me when I was just a girl trying to figure out life. She stayed through every move, every milestone, every hard season and every beautiful one.
She loved every version of me.
When she was around eleven, we found out at a routine checkup that she had hyperthyroidism. All of her organs were perfectly healthy. It was just her thyroid. So we began treating it immediately. She took medication twice a day, had monthly bloodwork done, we constantly were changing her medicine dosages to try to help her thyroid levels.
We did everything we could.
But over time, her hyperthyroidism slowly took over her little body. She became so frail. No matter how much we fed her or adjusted her medication, she kept getting thinner. She struggled to walk. She couldnโt jump anymore. The medicine itself was strong and often made her sick to her stomach. This last year was especially hard. Watching her body weaken was heartbreaking.
I knew she was sick.
But I always believed I would get to say goodbye.
That is the part that hurts the most.
She passed on 2/26/26 somewhere between 2 am and 6 am while we were all asleep.
I thought I would have one last moment. One last cuddle. One last chance to hold her and tell her how much she meant to me. To thank her for being my companion through so many stages of my life.
I did not get that.
When Thomas & I found her, she was not alone. My two boys were with her. One on each side of her, pressed up against her like they were holding her.
That image shattered me.
But it also brings me comfort now that I look back at that moment.
She did not leave this world alone. She was surrounded. She was loved until her final breath.
Still, I hate that I was not awake. I hate that I did not get that final moment. I feel like I did not get closure.
Since she passed, my mind has been loud with what-ifs.
What if I had tried something different.
What if I had pushed for another treatment.
What if I had been there.
Grief attaches itself to guilt. It makes you believe that if you replay everything enough times, you could somehow change the ending.
But I cannot.
And I cannot live in that space forever.
Because when I step back from the guilt, I see something else.
She was abandoned once. And then she never had to wonder again.
I gave her a safe home.
A warm bed.
Food and water every day.
Medical care.
Comfort.
Affection.
A family who adored her.
She was deeply loved.
She may not have had a long life like I envisioned, but she had a good life.
What gives me peace now is knowing she is no longer frail. No longer sick from strong medication. No longer trapped in a body that was failing her.
She is whole.
She is restored.
She is at peace.
And I know she is in heaven.
Pet grief is heavier than people talk about. I feel like non-pet owners do not fully understand when you say, โshe was my baby.โ
But she was.
She was my baby before I ever had a baby. She was my rock. The most affectionate, gentle soul I have ever come into contact with.
The house feels different without her. I still look for her in her usual spots. I still expect to hear her meow every morning.
I miss her so much.
Walking through this has taught me that the depth of grief reflects the depth of love. And I would choose those ten years with her all over again, even knowing how much it hurts to lose her.
She was not just a pet.
She was part of my story.
And she always will be.
A Letter to Lucy
Lucy,
I love you so much. I miss you more than I can put into words.
I hate that I did not get to hold you one last time. I hate that I did not get to say goodbye. I always thought I would have that moment.
But I hope you felt my love every single day of your life.
Thank you for being my rock when I was just a girl trying to figure life out. Thank you for loving me through every season. Thank you for being my best friend and my soulmate in the smallest, sweetest body.
Thank you for loving Thomas and turning him into a cat lover. Thank you for loving and watching over Addie while she played. Thank you for loving our home.
I hope you always felt safe. I hope you always knew how loved you were.
I am so grateful I got to be your mom.
Until I see you again.
I love you forever,
Mom ๐ค
