Going to buy ice with an empty body…the “real situation & feelings” on the day my beloved cat passed away

My beloved cat was a cherished family member. The sorrow and sense of loss after their passing cannot be fully expressed by the term "pet loss." Yet, such pain can only be understood through experience. Thus, the suffering of losing an animal family member can sometimes be dismissed.

Hoping to change this situation even slightly, I have documented the real circumstances and emotions I experienced on the day I lost my beloved cat.

The illness rapidly progressed to the "terminal stage"

First, I must inform you that this article contains realistic descriptions of a cat's death, so please read only to the extent that you feel comfortable.

The death of an animal is a very sensitive topic. Before airing shocking footage in dramas, for example, a disclaimer is often displayed out of consideration for those affected. Similarly, I believe that consideration for the flashbacks of those involved is necessary when discussing the death of an animal.

My beloved cat, Jiji, concluded his 11-year cat life due to angiosarcoma, a malignant tumor that forms in blood vessels. You can read about the discovery and treatment process here.

About four months after the surgery, on May 2, 2025, pleural effusion was discovered. Jiji's condition deteriorated rapidly.

The last time pleural fluid was drained was on May 13. The veterinarian told me to "observe him and come back on Friday or Saturday."

Up until then, draining the pleural fluid usually made him quite energetic, but that day, even after returning home, he didn't seem to have much energy or appetite. I somehow felt that "the time to say goodbye might be near..."

The schedule just before his death seemed to avoid hospital visits.

I reported Jiji's passing on X the day after he died. He had many fans who warmly supported him through his illness, so I wanted to share his final moments properly.

But actually, there was a miraculous event that I couldn't fully describe on X. It happened just before he passed away. It was as if Jiji had chosen the timing and place of his death himself.

Please bear with me for a moment as I explain this miraculous turn of events.

・May 13

The day the pleural fluid was drained for the third time. In the middle of the night, a sudden pain in my back right tooth... I thought, "This is no time for a cavity treatment," and tried to ignore it, but the pain kept me from sleeping and eating. Reluctantly, I called my dentist the next day.

On this day, Jiji came out of the oxygen cage, scratched his claws, and ate his food, living a relatively normal life.

・May 14

Called the dentist first thing in the morning. They said they could see me in the evening, but I already had counseling and psychiatric appointments scheduled, so I decided to go to the dentist the evening of the day after tomorrow, which was the only time I had free. (The next day was their closed day.)

I taught my mother how to use the oxygen cage, and she monitored and cared for him while I was out.

・May 15

It was my 10th anniversary as a writer. I was happy that Jiji was by my side. I thanked him, saying things like, "Thank you for working so hard with me," and "I wouldn't have made it this far without you."

I'm sure Jiji worked hard to see this day through.

On this day, although Jiji's breathing was a bit rough at times, he wanted to get out of the oxygen cage and even tried to go to his favorite bedroom, so I had planned to take him to the vet on Saturday.

It was as if my beloved cat chose the time and place of its death.

Then, on May 16th, the day he passed away. From the morning, Jiji did not try to leave the oxygen cage. I wanted to take him to the vet, but I had an interview in the morning and a dentist appointment in the afternoon, making a hospital visit impossible due to my schedule.

I felt bad that I couldn't take him to the vet due to my schedule. I told Jiji, "Let's definitely go to the hospital tomorrow," and headed to the dentist.

But something strange happened on the way. The toothache, which had been so severe, disappeared. No abnormalities were found in the examination or X-rays, and the pain never returned after that.

I wondered what it was all about. Thinking that, I returned home and offered Jiji some "Churu," which he devoured after a long time, much to my relief that he had an appetite. However, he still wouldn't come out of the oxygen cage. Just as I was asking, "Are you in pain?" my husband returned home.

After that, as I wrote on X, as soon as my husband and I were together, he came out of the oxygen cage and, at the risk of his life, headed towards the bedroom door. The moment he began to struggle there, I realized, "Ah, it's time to say goodbye."

I wanted him to pass away as painlessly as possible. Thinking this, I picked up Jiji, who was struggling to get into the oxygen cage, and he resisted me with a strength I'd never seen before, likely due to his suffering.

For a moment, I thought, "Let him pass away in his beloved bedroom...", but it would have been dangerous for Jiji to climb the stairs in that condition, so I had no choice but to rely on the oxygen cage. I still don't know if that choice was the right one.

When faced with the death of my beloved cat, I felt utterly helpless. All I could do was stand outside the oxygen cage, calling out to Jiji, who was struggling and suffering as I increased the oxygen concentration, saying, "I'm here," and "You're not alone."

After he fell into a coma, I was able to hold his paw, but the regret that he, who had been treated so roughly at the pet store, had to spend his last moments in a box never goes away.

At that moment when Jiji was suffering, besides thinking, "I shouldn't touch him because I might make him panic even more," I also had the selfish thought, "I might get hurt myself." As the days pass, I keenly feel the weight of that instantaneous choice.

However, I believe Jiji's wish to "spend his last moments with the three of us in this house" was granted. Because the schedule just before his death seemed to have been arranged by Jiji himself.

If I hadn't had the dentist appointment and had gone to the vet on Friday, he likely would have died in the car. Also, the dentist appointment shifted our dinner time, making it easier for the three of us to spend time together.

Perhaps Jiji was rolling us around on his paw pads to ensure he had the kind of ending he desired.

Wailing while I watched him pass, and "preparing to say goodbye" to his "empty body"

The moment Jiji took his last breath, I collapsed onto the floor, clutching his hand and sobbing uncontrollably. "Wailing" is probably what that kind of crying is called. I conveyed all the gratitude and love I felt at that moment, saying "thank you" and "I love you," but honestly, I don't remember much of what I said.

The scene before me was so shocking that my memories aren't vivid.

My husband, too, had never witnessed the death of an animal before. He repeatedly touched Jiji, saying, "I think it's muscle contractions, but I still feel like he's moving," seemingly unable to accept that he had passed away for a while.

After a good cry, I thought, "I need to do what I have to do," and first contacted a pet funeral home. The person in charge, considerate of my tears, efficiently arranged the cremation, but I couldn't hear the fees being explained at all and couldn't take notes.

After the call, I went to the pharmacy to buy rock ice to cool the body. I managed to drag my empty body home safely, but driving in that mental state is dangerous, so preparation beforehand is crucial.

Moving Jiji to a cardboard box lined with rock ice was very difficult. Even though I knew he was gone, I couldn't help but feel "it's cruel to make him lie in such a cold place."

Still, when I managed to pick him up, I felt the stiffness in Jiji's body. Tears welled up again as I thought, "He's really gone..."

Afterward, both my husband and I went to see Jiji repeatedly, touched him, and cried profusely. Although it might have been better to seal the cardboard to prevent the cold air from escaping, both my husband and I felt "it would make Jiji suffer if we closed the lid," so we couldn't seal it. We kept him in the coolest room until we entrusted him to the pet funeral home.

Days of crying while hugging the urn and escaping reality with games.

After the cremation, I didn't want to face reality, so I spent my days playing games. Being at home made me painfully aware of Jiji's absence, yet I couldn't bring myself to go outside.

The "reality of his absence" that I was confronted with the moment I woke up was painful, and it was sad that he wasn't in his favorite spots.

Honestly, I thought about following him, but I knew Jiji wouldn't want that, and I even felt like he'd be angry, saying, "Why did you follow me?!" so I stopped myself.

My daily routine became crying while hugging his urn every night. Even when I smiled during conversations with my husband, it felt wrong to enjoy myself. I knew Jiji wasn't the kind of cat to think that, but I still felt guilty.

Meals became a mere act of feeding, reduced to one meal a day. His first monthly memorial day is approaching, and I am still living the same way. The sense of loss, pain, and sadness have not diminished at all. It feels like my heart is still stuck in that day, and I'm just moving my body somehow.

However, as the days pass, I've started to understand "Jiji's absence" a little more in my heart. Because of that, I find myself overwhelmed by the "reality of his absence" in everyday life, crying because I miss him and want to touch him...

I am still in the process of exploring how to accept the reality that "I will never see him again."

The degree of pain one feels when losing an animal family member, of course, varies from person to person, and everyone copes with death differently. However, I felt through the death of my beloved cat that "pet loss" should not be simply dismissed, and that those affected need "grief care" similar to when losing a human family member.

Unfortunately, such grief care is not yet common. Therefore, when losing an animal family member, it's crucial to create a situation where you don't bear the pain of bereavement alone, such as talking to a psychologist or connecting with others who share similar grief.

In fact, I talk about Jiji during my monthly counseling sessions to protect my emotional well-being.

On the other hand, pet loss is a difficult pain to understand for those who have never lived with an animal. Sometimes, well-intentioned consolation can be counterproductive.

For example, phrases like "it's not like a human died" or advice like "why don't you get another cat?" when not desired by the person, can deeply hurt those affected. This is because, for that person, the deceased animal was a one-of-a-kind family member.

Through my experience, I hope that the suffering of those affected will be understood even a little, and that the way we think about and perceive the death of animals will become more compassionate. It's natural not to be able to fully understand the feelings of those affected, but I hope for a society where the pain of losing an animal family member is not belittled.

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