My partner and I recently made the gut-wrenching decision to let our 11-year-old dog, Molly, be put to sleep. That was preceded by weeks of: How bad is it? How bad might it get? Are her good days/minutes still outnumbering the bad? What else can we try? 

Over and over, I told Molly I loved her and thanked her for the love, care and laughs she’s given us. I talked with her and the cats about what was happening and acknowledged how strange and sad it all was. I assured all of them we would get through it, one day at a time, and that Kathy and I would care for and support them. We shared healing meditations and I prayed for courage.

Every time I started down the path of worry and despair, I reminded myself to return to the present moment, which was where Molly needed me to be. Sometimes I got further down that path than other times. I kept coming back, however imperfectly.

After Molly gently departed on her next adventure, Lucy (the black tortoiseshell cat pictured above) was stoic and attentive. Dusty, her younger calico sister, kind of understood what was going on but still found it confusing. Kathy and I did our best to reassure them and cope with the raw void. 

Less than a week after Molly’s passing, I noticed food-driven Lucy wasn’t finishing her kibble. She ended up having five teeth extracted. Lucy has tooth resorption, which basically means her saliva breaks down her teeth, and had had five extractions less than a year before. Tooth resorption is not uncommon in cats, but science hasn’t figured out why it happens or how to fix it.  

This time her recovery was full of ups and downs — different medications for pain and nausea, trying all manner of soft foods and feeding methods to get her to eat, and trips back to the vet clinic to be checked and rechecked. We were all still slogging through the fog of loss. I shared meditation with Lucy daily but wondered if I was getting it all wrong.

On a Saturday, after another vet visit and another failed attempt to get her to eat more than a couple of small bites, I was at the end of my tether. I wanted Lucy better. Yesterday.

Lucy was getting veterinary care. Now I had to force myself to do what I’d suggest to any client in this situation: Take a breath and focus on the connection rather than “the problem.”

Only then was I able to communicate with my cat without worry butting in.

What Lucy told me was not that she was tired of going to the vet and being cajoled to eat … though who could blame her? What she told me was that her mouth was still adjusting and her body was healing. She could feel the prayers and healing energy working. What she needed was time. And steadiness. She needed me not only to show up but keep coming back. Because we humans do drift.

I began to breathe a little easier. Her appetite remained sketchy for the rest of the weekend. On Monday afternoon she followed me into the furnace room, which is off limits to the cats, and ducked underneath some shelving.

“Lucy! Outta there!”

All I could see was the faint, dark outline of a cat crouched amid the dust bunnies. Never have I been so glad to see a cat behave like a stinker.

I went back upstairs, grabbed a fork and tapped the side of her stainless steel food bowl. Out of the furnace room and up the basement stairs she ran. And ate a bit more food.

The next morning, Lucy ate her breakfast normally. Well, maybe not quite normally, but close enough that we could see she’d turned a corner.

Lucy continues to improve, and we all continue to heal. It is not a linear process, and of course there’s never a good time for an animal to be ill or pass away. We humans have enormous responsibility for our animal companions, and yet there’s so much we cannot control. I’ve discovered that returning to God, to the breath, and to the presence of the animals can only help. Sometimes it’s the only thing that does.

Even if I have to do it several times a day (or hour), I’ll keep coming back.