The Sun Set on Sonny
Loving and missing you terribly sweet Sonny.
I’m finding it hard to go into my office right now, because my beautiful cat Sonny passed away on Friday afternoon. He was my buddy, so sweet and friendly, always wanting to be near me, and ready for cuddles. He would often sit on my desk whenever I was working, following my hand for pets as I tried to move my keyboard out of the way to make room for him. He’d sometimes add random characters to whatever I was typing if I was too slow.
I rescued him not long ago, and it took so much effort to prepare a place for him, set him up for a beautiful life in our home, and go through the process of rehabilitation. All my resident cats had their own process of adjustment as we integrated him into our lives. Just as all the cats were getting along, feeling safe and even starting to show affection toward each other, a tragic accident happened.
Just 5 feet from our front lawn, on our quiet no-through road, we found him. So close to home. So close to safety. Yet there was nothing I could do. The urge to deny what I was seeing was so strong that I went into shock and hysteria. I couldn’t understand it.
Our neighborhood is a cat- and dog-friendly one. I assumed we all know to look out as we drive along.
Our cats run for cover at the sound of a car coming up our street. Sonny had always preferred to stay really close to home too, while most of our other cats are more adventurous. He was known to escape to our roof most days if he did venture outside. But his favorite place was inside, next to me. He was just starting to get more adventurous, though, crossing the road to explore the areas around our property.
All our cats are indoor/outdoor, and we know the risks. But because our street is so quiet, I just never imagined.
I let myself shake uncontrollably as the tears gushed out. I let the absolute terror of seeing him lying there, lifeless, wash over me. His tail so stiff, never again to happily sway high in the air as he trotted toward me.
I’m no stranger to grief. In 2017, I watched my sister bury her 6-year-old daughter, Evie, my daughter’s absolute best friend and hero, taken by cancer. Four years prior, around three months before Evie was diagnosed at 2 years old, I watched my grandfather be put to rest in his grave after a heart attack. One month after Evie’s diagnosis, I watched my nan, his wife, be laid to rest next to him, taken by cancer.
I had absolutely no capacity to be with the insurmountable grief that compounded during that time. It took me years before I started feeling ready to unpack it all. I’m still recovering and maybe always will be.
There was something about Sonny’s death that perhaps gave me permission to be present with the grief. It felt way more accessible than it did back then. I know it’s a different circumstance, but I find grief can blend and morph from one loss to the next. It’s not neat and defined. It shows up in unexpected moments with a cosmic heaviness that sometimes can’t be explained. One more loss. So much grief.
I’ve spent the last couple of days allowing it to just be amongst other more normal moments. Because life keeps moving. Having kids makes that even more apparent. But the sadness takes time to feel. So it weaves throughout.
We buried Sonny under our jacaranda tree, by the side of the house that gets washed in the golden glow of sunset every evening. It felt fitting. After all, his name was inspired by his nature, my ray of sunshine, and the way he finally found a place in our home.
Time seemed to slow down as my husband dug a small grave, hugged by the large roots of the tree. In the glow of dusk, I could clearly see sweat dripping from Chad’s brow and dust swirling low in the air as dirt was unearthed, slowly, painstakingly. I’ll never forget the scene.
My son picked a flower and handed it to me as tears streamed down my face. I placed it on the mound that now swallowed Sonny, who not long ago was so happy to see me, jumping up on the sofa to get his morning cuddles.
The sun set on Sonny as my heart broke all over again.
