Learner Dad: Preparing your children for the death of a beloved pet
Picture: Istock
SKIPPY headed for cat heaven late last year. My wife and I first came across her and another kitten, Maisie, in a cat rescue centre 14 years ago. The two of them were in the same spacious cage, pretty much demanding that we took them home with them. It was one of the best decisions of my life.
Towards the end of Skippy’s life we had another big decision to make – what and when do we tell the kids? They had never known a time without the two cats. Skippy, in particular, was like a sister to them, which was pretty generous of her, as she had been banished from the inside of the house for the early years of their lives.
Life didn’t get much easier when she was let back in. My eight year old used to drag her around the house, making her appear as a cat-pony in her latest short play. Skippy took it all in her stride, except for the odd time she’d flick out her paw for a scrawl and my wife would promise the injured party that her cat would be sent to the sausage factory.
This seemed to reoccur in a lovely loop as if time was frozen and Skippy would never die. Until late November, when she started spray-pooping around the house, something she’d never done before. The vet took a look and it was bad news. Weeks, maybe months, if we were lucky.
We didn’t give the kids all the bad news but prepared them for bad news down the road. I’d catch them rubbing Skippy or just looking sadly at her. I think they’d sensed from us that things were worse than we’d let on.
Eventually, one wet and windy Sunday, I went out and found Skippy shivering in the shed, unable to dry the rain off herself. The end was coming faster than we thought.
My eight year old wrapped a towel around Skippy and sat her in her lap. We told them that this would be their last day holding Skippy because there was no point in saying anything else. There were tears, big honest, loving tears from all the lives she’d touched. Eventually, Skippy sloped off my daughter’s lap and back out to the shed, where she climbed into bed with her old buddy Maisie and lay down for the last time, the wind howling outside.
We brought the kids to Farran Wood just to get out for an hour and give Skippy a bit of peace and quiet. The woods were brown and sombre and beautiful. We stared at the herd of deer that lives in Farran, young and old, and it helped to tamper down the pain. Skippy died a few hours after we got home, and myself and my wife made a sad joke about how sound she was, saving us the cost of paying a vet to put her down.
We were impossibly sad for a few days and then things got easier.
I’ll never forget the way she had a special good-morning miaow when I left her in at dawn, the way she’d purr when I called her name. But the best thing she gave me was a new view of our kids. The way they loved her and mourned her and talked about her made me realise that there is much more to our kids than laughing and running and eating and sleeping.
So sail on Skippy and thanks again. Your calm, friendly soul is alive and well and living in Turners Cross.