My Boy, Mac

Grieving the loss of a pet: One Year On.

Macintosh Robson - who clearly knew his place in the family.

A year ago today I lost my boy. And I've been thinking about what to say, because grief is funny like that. It sits quietly most of the time and then taps you on the shoulder when you least expect it. A grief when you lose a pet is another thing altogether because it's almost something to be ashamed of. They were after all...just a cat. Let me tell you about that creature who was 'just a cat'.

Macintosh Robson was a tuxedo cat with an extremely high opinion of himself, and he was absolutely right to have it. He ran our household with the confidence of someone who had never once doubted his place at the top of the hierarchy. Mealtimes, bedtimes, all our schedules, all of it operated on Mac's terms. We were, in his eyes, adequately trained. (Just)

But underneath all that magnificent bossiness was something else entirely. He had an instinct for the people he loved that I still can't fully explain. He knew when you needed him. He'd find you, settle himself against you, and simply stay. No fuss. Just presence. For me, in some of my darkest years, that presence was everything. I'm not sure he ever knew how much that mattered. Actually, I think he probably did.

Grief for a pet is real grief. I want to say that plainly, because not everyone will. The loss of an animal woven into the fabric of your daily life, your routines, your moods, your worst days and your best ones, leaves a gap that is genuinely hard to describe.

The early days brought a disorientation I hadn't anticipated. It wasn't just sadness. It was the absence of a rhythm I hadn't realised I'd built my days around. Grief for a pet lives in the small ordinary moments just as much as the big ones. The house was so quiet, no little paws padding their way around, no ridiculously loud miaowing, no purring. We went on holiday because we didn't want to be in the house and because we could. And whilst there we saw an advert for Bracken.

Loving a new animal isn't a betrayal of the one you lost. They were who they were, entirely and completely. Nothing changes that. Bracken arrived and brought chaos and joy in the way only a dog can, and yes, there was guilt tangled up in the gladness. So much guilt. There still is. But Mac was Mac. Irreplaceable.

Loving a new animal isn't a betrayal of the one you lost. Bracken and his foxy.

The waves still catch me off guard, even now. Something small will surface a memory, or a friend came over the other day who I havent seen for a long time and he asked about my beautiful cat, and there it is again, not as sharp as it was, but real. I think that's just how it works when you've loved something that much. Today we sent Bracken off to his lovely dog sitter and we went and worked in another space. For me it was a case of being out of the house. So the grief and sadness is still very much there.

If you're in it right now, here's what I'd gently offer:

Grieve without apology. People who love animals the way we do understand the size of this loss. Find those people and stay close to them.

Don't rush yourself out of it. There's no correct timeline for when the hard part should be over.

If you bring home another animal and feel happiness about it, good. Let yourself. It doesn't undo anything.

Talk about them. Keep saying their name. Tell the daft stories and the tender ones. The ones that make you laugh before they make you cry.

Forgive yourself. For the grumpy days, for the moving forward, for the healing. Mac forgave me in real time. I just ...return the favour.

For now, I'm sitting with the knowledge that I am still loved that simply and that completely. Just by a different creature. A little louder, much woofier one called Bracken.