I still struggle to find the words to explain it — what I felt the moment I learned that my foster cat Sylvie passed away. Rarely do I find language inadequate, but this is one of those times.
It was a combination of shock, disbelief, and heart pain. And there was something else too: fear. I was terrified of facing the truth of her death, and how different the world will feel in her absence.
I received the news early in the morning. It was a series of messages from the veterinary clinic where she was confined. The first one said that she collapsed and that they were trying to resuscitate her. The second message told me that she’s gone.
I typed a reply, my fingers flying through my phone screen on autopilot before my mind could catch up. An insipid “oh my god” was all I could manage at first, followed by: how did this happen?
I couldn’t fathom it.
I ran to my husband. The words came out in fragments: “Sylvie passed away. Her vitals dropped. She didn’t make it. They just told me.” I moaned on his neck.
A sound somewhere between a sob and a whimper.
My knees buckled. Without my husband’s arms around me I would have collapsed to the floor.
Months later, I read Brené Brown’s Atlas of the Heart, in which she attempts the ambitious task of naming and distinguishing the full range of human emotions. She defined anguish as an “almost unbearable and traumatic swirl of shock, incredulity, grief, and powerlessness.” Anguish, she writes, can be so intense that “it comes for your bones,” often causing the person to crumple to the ground.
The days after Sylvie died were a blur. I can barely remember the details. I do recall posting an announcement a few hours after we knew.
As a fosterer with an online community that helped me care for Sylvie, I felt an unspoken obligation to say something publicly. Only then, it seemed, could her death become real. Only then could I begin to grieve.
The moment after I posted an announcement of her passing, I received an outpouring of support from our friends and followers. I wept as I read each message and comment. People I had never met grieved with me. They were also in shock. They were crying for Sylvie too.
I have lost animals before. Grieving over a pet was not new to me. But Sylvie’s death truly hit me hard. I think it was a combination of where I was mentally at the time of her passing and the sheer suddenness of what happened to her. Yes, I knew her surgery was high risk. She had undergone diaphragmatic hernia repair. But for some reason, I never even considered that we could lose her. She made it out of her surgery okay. It was when her lungs re-expanded that her body couldn’t handle it.
Eventually, I found my way toward understanding what happened. It took some time but I got there. Her veterinarian was patient in explaining it to me. My own research further helped me in making sense of it.
A requirement of my grieving process is getting clarity about what took place and how I could do better. Once I understood what had occurred, and what, if anything, I might have done differently, I was able to move through the loss.
Grief looks different for everyone. For me it unfolds like this: clarity, wallowing, acceptance, honoring.
I wanted, needed, to honor Sylvie. I promised myself her life would mean something. That it would open a path toward something meaningful. Something that would extend her life beyond its limits.
They say grief is love with nowhere to go. Mine needed a place to land.
Pretty soon, it became clear, that Pawsture was the answer. It was something I had been mulling over for some time. Losing Sylvie spurred me into action.
This website, where you’re reading this article now, is a labor of love borne out of my grief for a gentle cat I rescued, loved, and lost.
I envisioned an online publication that would advocate for pets, specifically puspins and aspins, and the people fighting for them. A digital space where animal welfare advocates, rescuers, and fosterers can read insightful articles and stories that will help them carry the mission forward. I wanted it to serve as a platform that will amplify the voices of people doing courageous, compassionate work for vulnerable animals like Sylvie every day.
If you’re reading this, it means I managed to get Pawsture off the ground. And I hope the website helps you, becomes useful for you, and makes you feel seen and supported.
Pawsture has a long way to go. Of this, I am certain. After all this is only the beginning, and there is still an enormous amount of work ahead. It is a quest that will never be finished. The work of a lifetime.
But somewhere across the rainbow bridge, in whatever beautiful place animals go, I imagine Sylvie is already proud of me.
