The Devastating Loss of Mr. Hanum

Trigger Warning: Pet Loss

I want to vomit. I want to scream. I want to drop my knees and beg for it not to be time. I want to hold him forever. This can’t possibly be it.

No one and nothing can prepare you for pet loss. It’s truly one of the most nauseating and confusing states to be in when you know it’s time for your pet to die. And DIE is the worst word to say. You know what death means. It’s the END of their time here with you on earth and those thoughts are nearly impossible to wrap your head around. How can they not be here with you after all these years, in your home, making your home a happy, smiley place to be…cuddles and all?

We met on Cinco de Mayo back in 2005. I had decided after much consideration that I wanted a cat more than anything. I had grown up with cats in my home and now that I was living out on my own, in adult world, I was ready to care for my own cat for the very first time

I found an ad for kittens on the internet. I responded and took my friend with me to go to the home of these kittens that were ready to meet their new families. I was determined to get a girl. I had girl cats growing up and it just seemed like WHAT WE DO. We have girl cats! Turns out, I was WRONG.

I lived in Florida back then. When we arrived, this little furball with a big ol’ head and tons of hair beelined straight up to me and stepped all over my feet and cried as loud as he could, ensuring that he would get my attention. He was relentless. I know cats can’t speak, but it felt like he was saying “I’m YOURS, now let’s get out of here NOW!” His strategy worked and the next thing I knew I was driving my BABY BOY home. 

For nearly 19 years, this boy cat was by my side. Through all the joys, the heartbreaks, the birth of my son, my divorce, countless moves, drives from Maine and Florida and back, we were a package deal. My ride or die. I just never wanted him to die.

This week it became clear that Mr. Hanum’s life was rapidly coming to a close. I was a little in denial because he seemed almost invincible to me. His whole life he’s been happy, healthy, vibrant and as perfect as a perfect cat can possibly be. Never sick. No health issues. My companion day in and day out. The constant love of my life.

Seeing your ride or die slowing down, stop using the litter box, and body functions start to shut down really messes with you. You think, “Is he in pain? Or is he okay?” We went to the vet twice this past month. The first visit was optimistic, cheerful, and calming to know that it was getting CLOSER, but to make him as comfortable as possible and who knew how far it would take us.

The second visit had a totally different feel. He had lost more weight, his kidneys were closing up shop and health was declining, in his advanced cat age. The vet gently but firmly let me know to start preparing because it would be soon.

I’d know for months that this time was approaching so I was making the most of it. I sang him his favorite songs each night, pet him longer and longer, gave him his chin scratchy scratches, and made sure he was eating and drinking to his heart’s content. I even sat with him and reminisced about when he was a baby and how hard I fell in love with him and recalled all our favorite adventures together. I also poured my heart out verbally how much I loved him and how much I appreciated him and how the last 19 years have been so incredible because of him. My Mr. Hanum KNEW where he stood and I swear he understood every word somehow.

Wednesday night, here in Maine it was a warmer evening. I decided to take Mr. Hanum outside, which we have not done in years. He’s been a safe indoor cat for a long time, but I wanted to let him feel the sunlight on his body and the grass beneath his paws. I also knew he couldn’t run anymore, so I wasn’t worried about him taking off suddenly. When I placed him on the grass, again I’m speculating, but it felt like he was transported back to when he was little and used to be outside more. Mr. Hanum was almost completely blind at this point, but the sunlight filled his eyes and he curiously sniffed all the fresh smells and slowly moved through the space, breathing in that fresh air and hearing the birds chirping cheerfully around him. I stayed with him as he moved to the driveway and took it all in. It felt peaceful and lively at the same time. He came to me and we sat quietly and I pet him and he smeared his face into my body. I’d been back and forth obsessively until this moment. I kept asking for a sign and/or foolishly hoping he would tell me when it was time. In this moment, I’m not sure how to explain it, but I felt it. It was time. He was ready.

Thursday morning I called the vet and we set up a time for Friday. I barely started to get out the sentence of what I was calling for. I burst into tears and they knew. Since they had just seen him, they knew they might be getting the call anytime. I choked out the words, then bawled unabashedly on the phone. When I hung up, the tears didn’t stop. How can I go home tonight knowing this is his last night with us? Suddenly everything was “the last time” and it felt so final and miserable despite seeing it coming. 

On the way home me and my son went to pick up his favorite meal, rotisserie chicken. Monday I had also served up “Mr. Hanum”s Chicken” and he had devoured it in record time. This time, he smelled it, but did not eat it. I felt my heart sink even lower because this was his go-to meal. A sure thing. I spoon fed him the chicken juices and he licked it up, but not with the usual rigor we were accustomed to. He was no longer interested in eating.

We took him outside on his last adventure and took a million photos in the sunlight. Despite Mr. Hanum not wanting to be on video often, he LOVED the camera. I’d done endless photo shoots of him since he was a kitten and sometimes it felt like he was intentionally posing. Like he knew it was time for photos and he’d do extra curls and stretches and stare into the camera or off in the distance, like he was a professional cat model reporting for duty. He was so gorgeous that I filled my phone with his face for the past 19 years, why not one more time?

That night I didn’t want him to be alone and I wanted to be near him as long as I could. He had lost his control of his body fluids already, but I just didn’t care. I got a clean old, thick comforter and folded it onto one side of my bed and placed a layer of pee pads in between like a protective sandwich in case he went accidentally. He sat like a loaf next to me. He looked exhausted. Again, I sang to him, loved on him and we went to sleep.

Waking up the next day felt like doom. I tried to remember how amazing his life has been and that I had been this lucky for so long to have him. We went to his favorite downstairs perch and I drank my coffee next to him. He laid on his side and looked like his breathing had become a little more difficult. I wondered if we’d even make it to the vet. Each time I thought he might have stopped breathing, he switched positions and perked up just a teensy bit to let me know he was still here. I called my brother and asked him to come bring Kaden to school because I didn’t want to leave his side for one second. He came and said his goodbyes. In our family our cats have mostly lived 16-21 years so we are all very involved and very sad when we lose one. Our cats are very cherished within our homes and hearts. I waited until the door shut and then I let out a cry that came from so deep in my body that it sounded primal and quite frankly, I scared myself. I did the ugly cry so hard, my body hurt when I let up. I let it all out. It was beyond my control. I had been holding it in for so long.

My Mom had planned to come with me, and originally I was going to go pick her up, but I decided there was no way I was going to put him in a kennel to transport his frail, little body. I called Mom and she came to pick me up. I wrapped him up so he was as cozy as he could be and I snuggled him in my arms all the way there. Mr. Hanum hates the car and normally cries, but he instead snuggled into my neck as I cried into his the whole way there.

If you’ve ever had to put your pet down, you will know the next part is something you tell yourself not to replay in your head, but you will for days, if not weeks…if not longer. I was with him through his very last breath and a little beyond. He went so peacefully. It was dignified, yet the worst internal agony as you give your pet every last ounce of love and good vibes that you can as you send him off. I visualized him being reunited with Buns, playing together happily again. You have to think these kinds of thoughts to get through to the next moment when you lose your pet. Anything to take the edge off the razor pain surging through your heart…

The ride home felt long and dreadful. When I get home, he won’t be there. For the first time in 19 years, I won’t be greeted with his gorgeous face and big ol’ cry to let me know it was dinner time. I no longer will have to look around the house to see where he peed today (he stopped using the litter box a while ago, which I know would be a deal breaker for some, but I stayed with it). I no longer had to make sure he was fed separately so that he actually got his food (because his adorable sisters are the cutest, but they can be vultures if you don’t keep an eye out). I no longer will find him on his favorite perch on the downstairs couch. I will no longer worry every day that he’s losing weight. I will no longer worry every day if he’s drinking enough. I will no longer worry each morning if he’s even made it through the night. I didn’t realize just how much worrying I was doing until I didn’t GET to worry anymore. While yes there was a twinge of relief that now he was in, as they say, “a better place”…he was no longer in MY PLACE. 

When I walked in, the house felt so empty. Kaden was at school and my baby girl kitties were there, but Mr. Hanum’s absence was loud and earth shattering to my spirit. I started picking up and throwing out the things we no longer needed. I mopped my downstairs bathroom. I vacuumed. I cried. I cried some more. I tried to lay down and shut my eyes, but I heard phantom cries of Mr. Hanum that made me shoot up. Prior to today when he cried he was letting me know he needed to go to the bathroom so I directed him to his pee pad. But there really was no cry to hear. I’d never hear his cry again…which made me cry harder.

I know it was time, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. I know he lived a happy luxuriously loved cat life. As it stands, there are moments when I am okay and others when the tears stream out as I think about him this weekend. I can’t talk about it outloud yet without crying. I know time heals, as it did with Buns, but right now, it’s hard to imagine not hurting the way I currently am. If you’ve ever lost your pet, I mourn with you and send you a huge virtual hug as you heal. 

Mr. Hanum, you are my sunshine, my only sunshine. You make me happy when skies are gray. You’ll never know dear, how much I love you. I forever mourn the day you were taken away.