Elizabeth Keedy

I started this story eighteen months ago but couldn’t finish it because I kept bursting into tears. So, I put it aside and picked it up again recently as I hoped the grief would’ve passed by now. How wrong I was. Reading it through again, I collapsed into a blubbering mess before I got to the end. It’s taken several attempts and lots more tears to get it finished. So here it is, the story of losing my beloved animal companion, my soul mate, Maggie. (Just a head’s up, it’s a long read compared to my other blog posts.)

Little Maggie, My Beloved Animal Companion

I walked into the kitchen and found her sprawled in the litter tray, unable to stand. That was it, the moment I’d been dreading for years: saying goodbye to my darling little Maggie.

2016 was the first time I thought about Maggie’s passing. She was eleven. I was going through a tough time, experiencing more than one big loss, which made me dwell on the subject of mortality and life cycle endings. The thought of my animal companion, a soul mate and best friend, being absent from my life every day caused several teary outbursts. I tried hard not to think about it so I didn’t drive myself crazy, and I definitely didn’t want to project my grief onto Maggie while she was still alive—that wasn’t fair to her.

Making the most of our time together was the best thing I could do for us both. Letting go of the unhealthy attachment and even dependency I’d formed with her, our connection deepened, and my love for her became unconditional. I showered her with so much love, care and affection, while mindful not to suffocate her, which made the last few years we had together, by far, the best. 

From around 2017, Maggie’s health gradually declined. During 2021 and early 2022, she and I made regular trips to the vet for check-ups and a monthly injection to help with her spinal spondylosis, but the final few months were stressful for the both of us. 

During her last week in the physical realm, I tried to ignore the signs that warned me of her approaching passing—denial was easier than acceptance. I wanted more time with her. Who wouldn’t?

Although I’d had years to prepare for her passing, facing that dreaded decision of whether to end her suffering with euthanasia or allow her to die naturally became a daily. But she’d given me the answer many times, by planting the idea into my mind—I just didn’t want to accept it. It’s strange really, because I’ve always been an advocate for euthanasia—in both humans and animals—but when it came so close to home, my emotions wanted to kick my rationality and selfless compassion out of the game. And that’s when doubt and guilt entered.

Was I doing the right thing? Was it too soon? Should I have waited longer? Should I let nature take its course? What would she prefer? The mental whirlwind sent me into a dizzying spin, followed by anxious tears.

I was shown a sign

The night before Maggie passed, I closed my bedroom door—something I’d rarely done. The decision was difficult, but she’d vomited or had diarrhoea in my bedroom during the night, every night for about a week and sporadically for the past few weeks. I laid in bed, grimacing when she wretched. I thought about leaving it and going back to sleep, but the stench was unbearable. So each night it happened, I got out of bed and cleaned it up with the carpet cleaner while worrying about waking the neighbours. I spoke to her in a soothing voice while stroking her head, wishing so damn hard that this wasn’t happening.

But it was. And had I known it was her last night. . . well, I might have done things differently. The ‘what if’ scenarios flew through my mind, leaving in their wake just one more thing to feel guilty about.

The stress and lack of sleep took its toll, and not just on me. Maggie’s sad little face and distressed expression made it clear how she felt. She tried to meow, as if saying sorry, but the vomiting had gone on for months, not every day, but often enough to irritate her throat and make her hoarse some of the time. She’d always had the cutest meow I’d ever heard, and it broke my heart to see her this way.

I didn’t realise then, but closing the door that final night had been a big sign. Noticing signs and omens, is something I’ve always been aware of, but when emotions get involved, it can be harder to see these insightful messages.

Those last moments

After sleeping through that final night, undisturbed, the following morning, I came down the stairs and peered through the bannister—it was an open stairway—but couldn’t see my little lovely. I did an about-turn and ran back upstairs to check the spare room to see if she’d decided to sleep in there, but she hadn’t. So I went back downstairs, calling her, deciding that she must be in the kitchen where the litter tray was. 

It was pretty early that morning, around 6AM, when I walked into the kitchen. A crunching sound came from the litter tray, followed by a quiet, hoarse meow. It was a covered litter tray, so it wasn’t apparent at first. Then I saw her legs trying to move. In my mind, I clearly heard, “It’s time.” 

My knees wanted to buckle as I bent down and peered through the opening to the litter tray. Maggie and I locked eyes. She looked so frightened, my beloved animal companion. And my heart melted into a sad puddle before picking up the pace and slamming against my ribs. She tried to meow again, her voice still hoarse, and I wanted to cry, but I fought it back. 

With trembling hands, I lifted off the top of the litter box. Maggie tried moving her back legs, but she couldn’t stand. I scooped her into my arms, her belly and legs damp with urine and bits of litter stuck to her fur. Compassion mingled with sorrow and flooded my heart.

Then panic stole the strength from my body and threatened to freeze me in place. What should I do? For two seconds that felt like two hours, I fought with myself. Should I wash her down even though I know cats hate water? Or would she hate it more if she was damp from urine with bits of litter stuck to her fur? 

Although Maggie had stopped grooming herself a few months earlier due to her spinal problems, I was sure she’d hate being soiled like that, especially in her last moments. And another round of guilt slammed into my heart. 

Carrying her in my arms, I took her upstairs into the bathroom, gently washed her belly and legs with warm water—she could stand, kind of, if I supported her but she couldn’t walk—and softly stroked her fur with a towel to remove some of the moisture. She didn’t try to struggle. It seemed as if she was letting me do it, and she’d never been washed in her life. It felt so strange.

I wrapped her in the towel and carried her downstairs, where I laid her in her cat bed and turned on the halogen heater—she always loved to lie in front of it. Her fur was still a little wet, so I gently combed her to help it dry. That relentless opponent, Guilt, buzzed through my mind, stinging my thoughts like an angry wasp. I tried to bat it away.

Maggie had lost so much weight from her health issues, I had to brush her carefully so I didn’t catch the brush on her sticking-out bones. She tried meowing again, bless her, as if responding to my loving words. I made sure I said everything I wanted to say while I still could. Tears spilled down my cheeks, leading to noisy sobs a couple of times.

When she looked at me, worried or sad or maybe distressed, it reminded me not to put my grief on her while she was still here. Making the most of our final hours together and being as present for her as I could were important to me, so I had yet another stern word with myself. 

I was up and down a few times, making a drink, getting changed and washed, and whenever I left the room, she cried out—a sound I’d never heard her make before—and another sign that her end was near. Each time she cried, I called out to her that I was coming, and I returned as quickly as I could, silently berating myself for leaving her alone when she needed me most.

Maggie wasn’t content with sitting still for too long—a fidget, like me. She wanted to sit beside me rather than on her bed. She wanted to get up and walk around. She wanted food and water. But really, she didn’t know what she wanted. I offered her several types of food. Each one she sniffed, then turned her nose away. She managed a few sips of water, but not enough to keep her hydrated. I helped her walk around, supporting her body as she took wobbly steps. And my heart cracked a bit more. After a little while, I laid her down beside me on the sofa.

The vets didn’t open for a couple of hours—the time when I would have to make the dreaded call—so I continued stroking her and talking, expressing my love and gratitude for our time together, all the love she’d shown me, the joy she’d brought me, everything we’d gone through together. And I explained it was time for her to leave, to go be with her sister, Grace, where she could be free of pain to play and run as she did when she was younger. In my heart, I knew I didn’t need to explain any of this to her, because she knew already, but it made me feel better. 

I helped her up a couple more times, supporting her wobbly steps as I pushed the tears back inside, stroking her, kissing her, talking to her the whole time. Silently, I hoped she would suddenly get better, that she would pick up again like she had in the past whenever she’d had these health dips. I pleaded with Spirit for just a bit a longer, a few more days. I so desperately didn’t want to make that dreaded call. But I couldn’t ignore her discomfort. And I knew my pleas were pointless. 

Cats rarely show how much pain they’re in, but when they do, you know it must be really bad. Maggie seemed to be trying so hard to stay alive, for me, to keep up appearances, to give us more time together. But prolonging her pain would have been cruel.

Making the conscious choice to put my animal companion’s needs before my own, felt like one of the best gifts I could give her and a final act of the deepest love I have ever experienced. But still, it seemed so insignificant compared to all the blessings she’d given me during our time together.

Eventually, the time arrived to make the dreaded call. I couldn’t bear the thought of putting Maggie in the pet carrier, which she hated, to take her to the vets, which she hated—we’d had monthly trips for her injections for almost a year—to spend her final moments in a small room, a place that wasn’t her home, with unfamiliar sights, sounds and smells. Not to mention, I, for sure, wouldn’t have been able to drive home afterwards. 

No. I just couldn’t do it. So I asked for a home visit.

The Guilt of Euthanasia

When the vet arrived—a little later than expected, which gave me more time with my little one—she told me she’d rescheduled several appointments to fit me in, because she got the feeling it needed to happen sooner rather than later. Divine intervention, I thought to myself.

As the vet and nurse prepared everything, in my psychic vision, I saw Grace appear in the room, ready to accompany Maggie to the other side. I even saw my dad pop in, smiling—he always adored cats—so I knew her passing would be swift and in good company. My years as a medium had taught me that animals instinctively know what to do when they leave their physical body, which can’t always be said for humans.

The vet and the nurse couldn’t have been more sensitive or compassionate to both mine and Maggie’s needs. I still wanted to scream: “No! No! Don’t do it. I want more time. I’ve changed my mind.” But how selfish would that be? It was time to let go of my beloved animal companion, and I needed to go through with it. 

Maggie looked at the vet and nurse and just blinked. I’m sure she knew what was coming—actually, I know she knew, at least at a soul level. The only time she tried to move was when they shaved her front leg to insert the catheter. All the while, I never stopped stroking her and speaking to her softly. 

It took only a small amount of the drug before she stopped breathing. Seconds. And she was gone. I couldn’t believe it had happened so suddenly, or so it seemed, but that was better for her, wasn’t it? I still felt shocked. The vet said she must have been well on her way already—like that was going to make me feel better.

Maggie’s body went cold and limp, her life force draining away so quickly. I lifted her up and placed her on a blanket, and the nurse wrapped her up, leaving her little head poking out. And that was it: I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, so I didn’t. 

I’d chosen to have Maggie cremated, which meant when the vet left, they would take Maggie, too. At least I didn’t have to face making the arrangements through endless tears.

They carried my little girl out of the room as I said goodbye. And when the door closed, I drowned in a tsunami of grief.

Messages From The Other Side

As a psychic medium, my connection to the ‘other side’ continues to expand, and I’ve never been more grateful for having this ability, because it helped me through the grieving process for my little darling. 

Within the hour, Maggie returned from the other side and enveloped me in her boundless love. Joy spread through my heart like warm sunshine. Tears of gratitude mingled with tears of sorrow.

My little girl, Maggie, was okay. She was happy and free of pain. She put images in my mind, where I saw her running, jumping, playing and pouncing, just as she had before illness and age robbed her of energy and fitness.

And then something unexpected happened that helped me find safety from that internal storm. Maggie told me that she’d planned for me to find her in the litter tray, collapsed and helpless. For ages, she’d sent me intuitive hints to have her euthanised. She’d planned her passing, the day, time and the method, what illness she would have and who would be present during her passing. And there was no need for me to feel guilty. She told me I’d done everything I could do for her, and she told me not to be sad for too long because she’d arranged for another little kitty to come into my life soon.

But did I want another cat? Could I put myself through that grief again?

After Maggie left the physical realm, I knew I didn’t want to live my life without the joy and love that an animal companion brings. I didn’t want to live in an empty house. So I went along with the idea, but I thought I’d give myself a break first, a few months, maybe, before sharing my life with an animal again. I thought the grief would incapacitate me for ages. 

Maggie had other plans. She visited me every day. I felt her presence in the house often. I saw her in my mind’s eye, felt her the softness of her fur, heard her claws tapping against the floor, her cute meow—before she became hoarse. She filled my mind with wonderful memories to replace the horrible memory of finding her in the litter tray. And she kept saying, “Don’t be sad for too long because another kitty is coming very soon.”

The guilt kept creeping back, but I kept fighting it off, reminding myself of what she’d told me: that I’d done nothing wrong, and everything was as it was meant to be.

Enter, Lilly, Another Beloved Animal Companion

Everywhere I went, Lilly was there in spirit, making it difficult for me to change my mind. So I made a four-hour round trip to meet her, and I put a deposit down to collect her four weeks later. 

Then the guilt returned. It was too soon. I felt like I was betraying Maggie’s memory. But Maggie assured me that none of this was true. She wanted me to be happy and to experience joy and love again. Her presence helped my grief, once more, and the guilt eased.

And now, eighteen months later, that new little kitten became the beautiful Lilly with kittens of her own. When I was a child, I’d always wanted to experience a litter of kittens, but I never got the chance. Recently, Lilly spoke to me during a meditation and told me that her having kittens was our purpose together. These little kittens needed the love I would give them so they could fulfil their own purpose with another human guardian. Obviously, that brought more tears. 

Having Lilly’s five little bundles of fluffy love in my life has been the most joyful experience I’ve ever had, and it’s opened up my heart even more.

I don’t have children of my own—I never wanted them. But baby animals? Yes, please. They fill me with so much unconditional love that it feels as though my heart will burst. And being so close to these precious bundles of fluffy love has opened the door to something I’d wanted to do years ago but talked myself out of it: animal communication and healing. And the moment the idea popped into my mind, everything suddenly felt right with the world.

Not a day goes by when I don’t think of Maggie or Grace, her sister, or all the other cats who’ve chosen to share their lives with me. And since Lilly’s kittens were born, my thoughts have returned to my childhood cat, Thomas. Thomas was my first real love, and when he passed, he broke my heart into so many pieces I never fully recovered. 

One of my YouTube subscribers criticised me recently for allowing Lilly to have kittens. They told me there were too many cats. I understand this narrow-minded perspective. It’s part of the 3D matrix programming that’s stops us realising the spiritual truth: that each of us, animals included, have a purpose here. Even the humans and animals that end up homeless chose this life before they incarnated.

I don’t care about the criticism. I’ve endured it my entire life for being different. When we judge others, we’re allowing our ego to have the upper hand, and we’re missing the point that we are all connected and all one being. I’m just glad my eyes are open to seeing so much more than just this reality.