I woke up this morning feeling a deep pang in my heart knowing that Mogli wouldn’t be jumping on my door handle to open it in her genius way to enter my room.
She passed away yesterday afternoon after a month-long illness (peritonitis) that we didn’t realize until the morning she died would be fatal.
I had gone on a trip to Hunza and Skardu in April. Towards the end, I heard tell from my mum at home that Mogli hadn’t been eating properly and was losing weight. The thing is, the parents had a trip planned as well, and were scheduled to leave as soon as I came back. Which meant that I had to start getting her treated as soon as I returned. I took her to the vet as soon as I could, around the end of April, and what followed was days of routine vet visits and IVs and antibiotics and painkillers. I had to take an injection home for two days to inject into the cannula in her arm, which I could never do properly, and I wonder if I had been able to get all of it inside her things would’ve been different. But I guess I couldn’t have known, because by the time the treatment was over, everyone was home, and Mogli was actually better. She had a lot of fluid in her abdomen which was drained twice, and on her last visit, she was eating and drinking properly and there was no sign of fluid.
After this, she was eating a lot, demanding food at mealtimes in her characteristic way: looking up at each of us from her level on the ground and then standing and reaching up with her paw for an arm to tap as if to say ‘hello, don’t you forget about me’. In all her 8 years, this never got old.
But then, about a week later, she stopped eating again, and started losing weight again. The thing is, something similar has happened before, about a year ago, after a series of vet visits for an injured paw; she stopped eating and became really skinny and still slept with me at night and I was anticipation-grieving for a number of nights thinking this was it, but then she slowly, naturally became more receptive to food and water and went back to normal. The vet is always a tricky place to take her because she is deeply affected by it and adding to her trauma feels worse than just letting her be and seeing what happens. It’s always a difficult decision to make. But I guess we thought maybe she was just acting out again, being a little dramatic and sad.
But this wasn’t the case. She was now throwing up everyday. It started with throwing up food until she stopped eating and just threw up nothing, or bile. We took her to the vet again for three days, and they recommended a kind of surgery to see what was going on, but she was so weak by this point that it felt senseless.
In the last few days she was mostly quiet, sitting under one particular sofa for most of the day, and we still hoped something miraculous might happen.
On Saturday we chose not to take her for her treatment because we could tell it wasn’t working. There was a heaviness in the air at home, of uncertainty and confusion and a sense of limbo.
On Saturday night, she was in my room. One of the things she would always do every few days and especially in the winter, would be to open my door in the middle of the night (startling me awake) and make her way to the space between my legs over or under my blanket. I would adjust myself around her, even if it meant disturbed sleep, but I almost never made her leave because I loved having her there.
So this night, at around 4 am, she came up over to my bed again, and nestled herself where she usually did. I gave her some pets on the head. Then, she got up, and rather purposefully came up to my face, and gave me a very intentional nuzzle under the neck. She’s never done this before. She’d give me a loving sniff on the nose, but never a nuzzle so reassuring and expressive. I stayed mostly wakeful after this, feeling like this was her way of saying it’s okay and I love you.
Mum woke up early too, around 6, and came to my room. Mogli was sitting right next to me now. I don’t think she had slept all night, just trying to get comfortable in different places, as if restless. Mum and I lay on my bed with Mogli between us for a little while, and then she moved away. What followed was an 8 hour blur of a day of just watching her in her final moments, because we knew. It took a long time, because she’s a young cat. I’m torn between past and present tense because this was only yesterday. She was a young cat with a young heart that didn’t want to stop beating so soon.
She did a number of interesting things in those hours. In her lethargic and listless state, she made her way to every room in the house, one by one. She jumped up to the sink to drink a few drops of water from the tap as she always did. One moment, when it looked like she was fading for good, and the three of us were just sitting with her near her litter box, mum said aloud, ‘I guess we’ll have to get rid of the third litter tray.’ Within one second, Mogli got up and went and sat in her litter box. We looked at each other incredulous, sure that she was saying, ‘nope, not yet.’
She had very little to no energy. And yet she made her way to the drawing room, not fully steady on her feet, and jumped up on to the sofa. Then she moved to the kitchen, where she moved around but stayed in until the end. It was a difficult ordeal. It’s not easy to watch a cat die. And that too, your most favourite cat. I used to dread the day that Mogli would die or that I’d see her body stiffen, and I was in disbelief that today was the day and I was seeing it happen. She was eight, and so had at least eight to ten years left in the bank. It was the worst possible thing that could happen, truthfully speaking. And here it was, happening.
She breathed her last at 2:17pm. It was very strange to witness what her body went through. The vibrations and muscle spasms that continued even after her heart stopped beating. But that was that. She was really gone. I’m glad the three of us had each other. I think I would have been destroyed if I was alone. We placed her on a soft blanket and covered her up.
By the time we were burying her in our courtyard, my khala showed up, bringing with her emotional support, snacks, and her own personal memories of Mogli. When Fuzzy died a little over two years ago, she had come over as we covered his little grave with flowers and stones. These days, I’m starting to see the value of showing up, and the people who do, in their own special ways.
The burial ritual was soothing. It diverted the grief into an activity, although I was still crying and poofy eyed. And then it was just soothing to make her grave beautiful, laying the ground with big monstera leaves, and basil leaves, and newly bloomed desert rose and champa flowers. Then we covered her up with the same sand we dug out, sifting out all the rocks so it was all smooth. We watered the little square, and washed some collected stones and sea shells, and arranged them on the grave. Then we all just hung out and had tea downstairs and talked about Mogli, and other things.
I went upstairs a couple times because my eyes were burning from the emotional intensity of the day, but when I’d go into my room I’d be hit with the realization again and I didn’t want to (could not bear to) be alone. I took breaks to put ice and cucumber slices on my eyelids. But I was grateful to have had this support system at home.
There were moments I felt inconsolable and absolutely devastated. I saw her everywhere. And today I see her everywhere. I obsessively went through all my albums for photos of her - which thankfully, I took a lot of, because she was a companion cat and she was always around. I see her underneath the dining table, on top of the bookshelf, I feel her tapping my foot with her backfoot when she wanted food, I see the cat-like formations underneath blankets and draperies to indicate a Mogli and I must not accidentally sit on her, I see her sitting in the basin of the tap she drank water from.
I can’t explain to you how much of a loss this feels like, and is. And that sucks, because only we who knew her can get it. How much I genuinely loved this small, quirky being, who had such a rocky start to life, who had a particular love for biryani chicken. There’s this in-built narrative in the world of a pet loss being less significant than a human loss but I really would argue otherwise - I don’t think I will ever experience a love so unconditional and pure and reciprocal. There’s not much to do now except feel her absence, and write, feel the Mogli-shaped space in my heart, and be reminded of her and either smile or burst into tears when I am.
I do think about the ‘addictive’ nature of grief. It’s awful and painful, and at points it’s hard for me to swallow food because it feels like I have a lump in my throat and heart. But it’s also such a heart-centered time. Few other times in our lives are we as deeply in our hearts as when we are struck by grief and loss. And I did also have a moment where I wondered what the point is, of all this feeling and suffering. But life without love is sad and joyless, and love without loss is impossible, so.. here we are. In it. I miss her and I will never not miss her.
Some photos of her throughout her 8 years of life, from when we found her and she was difficult to look at, to just a few days ago, gorgeous and bright-eyed as ever.
It's beautiful how you and your mum were able to be with Mogli in her last hours. For whatever little it's worth, I also think it's lovely that she was able to pass in the space she was most comfortable and happy in. Three years ago, I held my mother's beloved cat as he died at the vet's clinic, and to this day I feel horrible about it and wonder if we should've just stayed home. It took a long time not to see him at the corner of my eye, phantom movements all over the house, his sweet little habits and rituals. He's buried in our garden and I say hello to him when I'm there because he's in the flowers. I think Mogli is also still with you, and in the flowers.
Such a beautiful, tenderly written piece <3 I'm so sorry for your loss