Thelma: the Pet I will Never Forget

A bundle of chocolate-point Siamese kittens tumbled out of the cat carrier onto the carpet. My heart melted; there were five and I wanted all of them but couldn’t afford more than one. So I chose the kitten being strangled by her sister because I wanted to protect the tiny creature. My goodwill was scoffed at by the breeder, a matronly woman full of affection for her darlings, who urged me to take the strongest, the most playful one in the litter, the one less likely to fall victim to illness. That was Thelma, as I named her, and she was to change my life profoundly in so many ways.

The love that grew between us was both beautiful and terrifying. Terrifying because my mother’s untimely death had left me traumatised as a child and unable to commit to any adult relationship that could potentially end, leaving me sunk in grief and fear again. Very quickly, Thelma helped me overcome that fear by rewarding me with the joy and fulfilment that love gives. She draped herself over my left arm like liquid velvet when I carried her and gazed up at me with the most disarming blue eyes ever. Often, I held that gaze, seeking the wisdom in her deep blue eyes, feeling absolutely blessed by the gift of her presence in my life.

Her soft warm fur reassured me at night as we snuggled down under the duvet together and when I opened my book, her purring accelerated. Nudging her left ear as I drifted into sleep, I convinced myself that her dreamy chocolate aroma was a sedative, such a consolation for me because my mother had taken her own life one night, leaving me with insomnia thereafter. 

Thelma’s trust in me was complete and I often felt both honoured by it or unworthy of it when my PTSD was so intense that I was unable to give or receive love. And it really kicked in when Thelma’s life on this earth ended, shortly before she reached her 20^th birthday. Warning signs had alerted me to the possibility of Thelma’s passing. Her arthritic limp became more pronounced; her sight was failing her too so she stumbled into chair and table legs, and she strained to use bowels that had seized up with age. All the signs of illness and death were there but I was in denial; the thought that I had power of whether she lived or died appalled me. In the end, unable to witness her suffering any longer, I had to have Thelma euthanised.

Numerous were the lessons she taught me, particularly when the insights I gained into myself were not always pleasing. The most precious gift Thelma gave me was her death. I didn’t get the opportunity to embrace my mother and tell her how much I loved her before she died. Thelma gave me that opportunity. With the strongest possible love and the deepest sorrow, I said goodbye to her, but it was grief in the days, weeks and years ahead that taught me what goodbye really meant, leaving a gaping hole in my life.

Her presence in my life was so complete that even now, more than a decade after her passing, I still miss burying my face in her soft warm fur, still miss the click of her nails on the floor. I still search for cream-coloured hairs on my clothing while avoiding the pet section in the supermarket. No cat food, no cat litter, no insistent mewing, no arrangements to be made for cat sitters when I go on holiday. No responsibilities and no unconditional love when I need it. No evidence of Thelma in my life. That is the hardest part of the grief that I still suffer.