Susan Klemmer, LLC

Some days, the grief is passive, just sitting in the background of everything I do. Today is not one of those days.

As I listen to the obnoxious snoring of three of our four dogs, I can barely recall the sound of my cat’s voice. She knew two words (yes, really). She could say “Mowwwwmaaaa” and “iloveyou” and she did, frequently. As she aged, she would call out my name from a random place in the house, letting me know she was lost, or scared, or hungry or just wanted me to find her. And when we were cuddling, she’d repeat “iloveyou” back to me.

I miss the sound of her purring. She had a distinctive purr, it rattled her entire body. Like she was overwhelmed, literally, with love and joy.

It’s barely been a week since she crossed over the rainbow bridge (I kind of hate that saying). And all I can see is her tiny little face making eye contact with me as I gave the emergency vet permission to end her suffering. Her eyes never closed, but the vet confirmed she was gone. I had to hand her body back to the vet, and earlier this week I got a little box with her ashes in it. I didn’t want it. I don’t need a reminder that she’s gone.

Today, the grief is raw, and it’s in my face, and it’s making my eyes hurt like I’ve been crying. I know the grief will abate over time, but the hole she left in my heart is a gaping wound today.