Six years on and the death of my cat is still painful

In September it will be six years since my beloved ginger fluffball, my 12-year-old cat Lego, was euthanised. And I can honestly say that I still feel the pain of this loss deeply.

This sentiment is hard to explain and, for some people, impossible to understand.

I remember once discussing my grief and having it dismissed by someone. In fact, they said to me: "You mustn't have ever had anyone close to you die because that is what real loss is."

Except yes, I have lost people close to me. Quite a few, actually. But one loss can't be compared to another. They are all unique, and for me the death of Lego remains one of the most challenging experiences I have ever had because he was very much a part of my life and my heart.

Loving, affection, loyal Lego

I loved Lego, or "Legs" as we called him, unconditionally from the minute I saw his RSPCA profile. The very next day, my then-boyfriend (now husband) Matt and I met the two-year-old devilishly handsome Lego in person, and after being given the green light by him (indicated by a series of smooches, rubs and requests to be picked up) we too knew he was our boy.

He came home with us that evening and at bedtime slotted himself in between Matt and me, his head resting next to mine on the pillow.

Some people think cats are nonchalant and do what they want without any consideration for their owners, but not Lego. He was the most loving, affectionate and loyal boy I had ever met.

He treasured a cuddle; he'd often balance on his hind legs and lift his two front paws to indicate he would like to be picked up. When I did, he would place a paw on each shoulder and rub his head on my chin.

When I was pregnant, he slept with his head on my growing tummy or curled up with me alongside my gigantic body cushion. When I came home with my first daughter, Lego considerately approached us, rubbed his head softly on hers and then curled up next to me as I fed her on the couch.

When my children were toddlers, he did the same for them — when they fell over or hurt themselves, he would appear from wherever he had been and go and sit with them or smooch them, his way of ensuring they were okay.

A fundamental part of our family

I still always refer to Lego as my firstborn. While he might not have been human, he was still very much my first child, albeit a furry one. He was the first pet my husband and I shared and the first we'd had since leaving our respective family homes as we moved away for university and jobs.

He brought so much joy into our lives, even for my husband who had declared he was "not a cat person" but would frequently be found sitting on the couch with a fluffy ginger feline purring in his lap.

There was something special about Lego, something that made him a fundamental part of our family, even as it evolved from us as a couple renting an apartment, to a family of four moving into our first home.

My kindred spirit

But in late August 2017, Lego rapidly became ill. Within days he was in significant pain and could no longer walk. Without any possible treatment options, the vet's advice was to euthanase him.

Despite knowing deep down that this was coming, even before I had taken him in for the consultation, trying to grapple with the idea of life without him was still soul-destroying.

And even as the vet had left the consulting room to collect the drugs that would ultimately end his life, he purred contently, almost as if he was comforting me, telling me it was okay.

The process of euthanasing him was heartbreaking, there are no other words for it. While I am absolutely glad I was patting my boy and talking to him in his last moments, agreeing to euthanase your own fur baby can be emotionally challenging.

We buried Lego in his special place, underneath his favourite tree in our backyard, one he used to watch for hours through our lounge room window as the birds flew in and out of its branches.

I often go out to this spot just to chat and to thank him for all of the memories, cuddles and smooches, and for being my kindred spirit, still today, six years on.

Shona Hendley is an ex-secondary school teacher from regional Victoria. She lives with her four fish, three goats, two cats and one chicken, as well as her two human children and husband.