5 Stages of Losing Mooney
Navigating the days and weeks of time after loss.
Vote: Mooney for President. AI Photo credit: Jason Liberman
The digital clock displayed 2:32 AM when I heard our cat, Mooney, chirp his “hello, wake up, I’m here” meow outside my bedroom door. He wanted to go out. Regrettably, in the still of the night, I opened the patio door to the back yard and let our three-year-old Norwegian forest cat be free and unencumbered from what he felt went against his feline desires. Mooney was an outdoor-access cat and thus, we accommodated his needs. It was a deal we had made at the beginning.
Mooney: “Ahem, Lady. Let me go outside when I want and I will not pee on your bed or tear up the arms of the sofa with my razor sharp nails.”
Me/Lady: “Copy that.”
Four hours later, at 6:30 AM, that feeling of dread overcame me. Mooney wasn’t at the patio door, awaiting his breakfast.
In 1969, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, a Swiss psychiatrist, described and characterized five common stages of grief, popularly referred to as DABDA. These stages in her Grief Cycle are not linear, in that some people do not experience all of them or in the same order, but they are the most commonly observed by those who are grieving.
Denial: An expert hunter and terrorizer of mice, Mooney was probably chasing his prey in a nearby bush, or he was across the street in the thick vegetation that is fenced in by the city—his go-to locations when he felt the urge to kill a mouse or remind any rodent below him in the food chain that he was at the top. It had been weeks since I’d seen a coyote in our immediate neighborhood, so my mind need not go there. Plus, Mooney was agile and street smart, having been a bona fide alley cat before he adopted us. After many scratches on my hands and arms, I had always pitied the wild animal that would tangle with Mooney because he was vicious when it came to roughhousing or defending himself. And so I told myself that he was most likely sleeping on a neighbor’s patio chair. I knew that Mooney would soon be home.
Mooney was an expert mountain bike rider. AI photo credit: Jason Liberman
Anger: How could I have been so negligent and not checked for awaiting predators before I ushered him into the unknown, just because I was too tired to look? I was angry at myself, but my kids were angrier. I had seemingly killed their pet. The anger was also directed at the coyotes and bobcats that were known to frequent our community. Why couldn’t they hunt undomesticated animals and not our family pets? Although, Mooney was more than a pet; he would help himself to his own groceries, curating the perfect meal of angel food cake or Postmates delivered sushi. He could open any door in the house, pulling the handle down with both paws while he leaned in to activate the latch, allowing the door to swing open.
Don’t turn your back on the pancakes when you have an overzealous cat in the house—one who loves pastries, whipped cream, meats, cheeses, waffles, and all things fish.
No kids or toddlers were hurt in the taking of this photo.
Bargaining: What if I had checked the yard first, making sure there wasn’t a coyote lying in wait by the garbage cans? If only I had put him on the bedroom balcony instead of the ground? Mooney would assess the outdoor risk from above, and then traverse the patio roof, making his way down a carpeted ramp to the barbeque. Indeed. If only I had done that instead. Bargaining is said to be a line of defense against the emotions of grief because it helps to postpone the sadness, hurt, or confusion.
Depression: My kids did not want to get out of bed, and neither did I, except I had to keep my boots on the ground with my Have You Seen Me? poster campaign in our neighborhood. The food dishes, toys, cat tree, and suction cupped window perch were constant reminders that amplified the sadness and depression from Mooney’s absence. Depression is the “quiet stage” of grief. It attaches to your heart and gets a free ride without being visible by anyone who sees you.
A window perch to watch the birds.
Is your name Mooney or Money?
Acceptance: After eight weeks of scouring the lost pet websites, local shelters, and calling his name into the abyss of the night, accepting that Mooney might not return is now a reality. My kids prefer to believe that he was chased by a coyote, became lost in an unfamiliar neighborhood, and is now making another family’s life chaotic … I mean, fulfilled. We aren’t happy that he is curled up on someone else’s sofa or being loved by people who aren’t us, but this theory is the one we’re going with. At least he is still living his best life—watching birds and squirrels from afar and enjoying that last piece of albacore tuna that wasn’t eaten from the sushi delivery.
Yes, this is an expensive lollipop lamb chop, albeit left over from a “doggie bag.”
Acceptance is personal; it’s a decision that’s made from within one’s heart, and a way to frame a tragic event in order to move forward. Acceptance is a coping mechanism that humans possess, and in this effort to cope, it helps us survive the day, and the days which follow.
Mooney fileting a salmon.
AI photo credit: Jason Liberman