If there is any doubt as to how we feel about our pets, consider this statistic that I just happened to have close at hand: in 2020, we spent £7.5 billion trying to keep them healthy and happy. If you’re not surprised by that fact, it’s probably because you spent a fair chunk of money on your own pet – possibly at Christmastime, when you splashed out for that pricey new memory foam bed to keep Chauncey warm and cozy this winter. I’m not judging; I’ve done similar.
Of course, the industry already knows about that statistic. They know what big money anything animal is, from books about them, to movies, to clothing, food, medical care, toys, etc. ad nauseam. And what the industry has zeroed in on, as the cause of all this hysteria, is the fact that we humans consider our pets to be family. And for family, we’ll move mountains. We’ll go to great lengths. We’ll spend money we don’t even have. We’ll do whatever it takes to keep those family members close. And when they pass on, we are devastated.
Unfeeling friends will then ask us when we plan to get another pet, as if simply replacing our beloved family member would be enough to bring us out of our funk. Unfeeling professionals, such as the psychiatrist I meet with occasionally, will ask if we’re ever going to get another pet. How can one possibly answer that? We’re in the midst of grief; we have no idea what we’ll be doing tomorrow, let alone next week/month/year. I’ve been giving this subject much consideration over the last three years since my beloved Junebug (and then Gracie Ellen Tripod, and then ginger cat Spanky) died, and I’ve only figured out one thing: I want that family back.
I realize, obviously, that that’s not going to happen. But when I think back on the 18+ years I spent among them – from when I adopted Muffin, then acquired Buddy, Spanky, Junebug, and Gracie – it was a lifetime. My lifetime. And theirs. We lived for some years in a converted chicken coop. There was a long hallway where I used to sit and throw treats for Junebug and Spanky to chase. At night, we all slept together on the bed.
During the summer, they would sit around their catio and watch the rodents and birds moving about outside, eating the seeds I had put out for them. It was animal telly, and the cats spent many happy hours there, entertained. It was a quiet life, and the years went by slowly, whilst I wasn’t paying attention.
In 2007, I bought Critter Cottage, where we’ve all lived ever since. In summer, I grew catnip plants, and made toys filled with their flower buds. I put bird feeders out in the garden so that the cats could bird watch, and sniff all the interesting outdoor smells. In winter, we would all huddle in the lounge and watch telly, waiting for spring to come round again. And then, somewhere along the way, the cats got old, and older still. One by one, they got sick and died, until I was left with just Buddy. It’s a sad irony to me that the oldest cat outlived the rest. And now, I look back in sadness, and continue to struggle with the loss of almost every member of that family.
It’s not that I don’t want to acquire any more pets. It’s more a matter of not being able to let go of the ones I had. I mean to say, they were an integral part of my life for twenty years. How on earth does one get past that? I should think it would be easier to replace the husband than to ‘replace’ the cats. Don’t tell him I said that, though. He’d have a fit.
