Only Love Can Break Your Heart

Lamenting the Loss of a Precious Companion

After a long, stable period with our beloved nineteen year-old cat Reuben, we woke this morning to discover him feeling quite unwell, the worst we’d yet seen. The last year has been difficult, as he began suffering multiple health problems, all of which he seemed to come through with his same cheerful, loving personality intact. Jenn cared for him with enormous commitment and diligence, administering a challenging, daily regimen of duties and meds; I assisted where and when needed. Although I know plenty of them exist out there, she is without question one of the world’s finest cat moms. 

We’ve had many precious felines through the years—or rather, they’ve had us—and have experienced all of them going through various end-of-life difficulties. We held out some hope, however, rushing him to his longtime vet. But, time runs out for us all, eventually. And today ended up being the day. 

The vet agreed. We made the decision. By 9:30, he had crossed the rainbow bridge to join his brothers Arthur, who left us in 2021, and Oliver, gone in 2022. May they once again romp and play together, as they did all through their time here with us beginning all the way back in August, 2005. Nineteen years was a long time, but not enough.

Jenn, as devastated as I’ve seen her in our many decades together, has pushed on through the day with as much grace as possible, as have I—as with every loss, every struggle, every hardship, this latest challenge has only brought us closer. Today is day zero; tomorrow is the first day we face without our precious boy. As many cats as we’ve been lucky to have, we’ll never have a better one than Reuben. 

And so, now the time has come once again for grieving, healing, and trying to get on without any of our precious ‘three fellas’ here with us, except as memories. Bless you, Reuben, and bless Dr. Cheryl Sine and the fine staff at Shandon-Wood Animal Clinic, who all cared for him as if he had been their own treasured pet. 

this is the garden: colours come and go,

frail azures fluorine from night’s outer wing

strong silent greens serenely lingering,

absolute lights like baths of golden snow.

This is the garden: pursed lips do blow

upon cool flutes within wide glooms, and sing

(of harps celestial to the quivering string)

invisible faces hauntingly and slow.

This is the garden.   Time shall surely reap

and on Death’s blade lie many a flower curled,

in other lands where other songs be sung;

yet stand They here enraptured, as among 

the slow deep trees perpetual of sleep

some silver-fingered fountain steals the world.

—e. e. cummings, Sonnet IV