The Loss of Brownie: Unprocessed Grief and Guilt

The loss of Brownie has left a hollow that words can barely touch. It is one more grief to live with — and a guilt I cannot shake off. I hold myself responsible for his death after the rushed neutering at an NGO, done without a prior investigation of his real health condition. He was six months and few days old. 

Perhaps it was too soon after his booster shot; perhaps he contracted something at the centre; or maybe, just maybe, he ate something poisonous. I will never know. What I do know is that I should have followed standard protocol. That thought keeps replaying in my mind.

In the days that followed, I tried everything to save him- running from one vet clinic to another. I spent what I could, did all I could, but nothing worked. And now the other three — his sisters — are left without their brother. Their mother went missing some three months ago.

Watching their quiet confusion, his absence at mealtimes — it is unbearable. They were a family, gentle and well-bonded, never scrambling for food. Brownie, the most patient one, would always wait for his sisters to finish before he began to eat.

Brownie was always the most civilised among them, a creature too refined for the roughness of this world.

He was not just a cat. He was a thinker — observant, slightly aloof, yet always full of quiet affection. Every night, after I locked my room and left them in the adjoining one, he would sit by the door, eyes heavy with sadness, waiting or even sometimes scratching the door for me to open it. There was something profoundly human in his patience and gaze.

After he was gone, I hid all his photos on my iPhone. I could not confront that innocent, cherubic face — that small, perfect body that once curled up near me. Brownie was joy wrapped in fur, a reminder that love, dignity and intelligence exist far beyond our species.

His life mattered — as much as any human’s, perhaps more. Because this planet was never meant to belong solely to us, the flawed and restless race we are — chasing greed, lost in endless pursuits.

The hardest part of this loss is not my own sorrow but the sight of his sisters missing his cuddle and kisses. Their bond was real, visible, almost sacred. He was a doting brother. I only wanted to give them a happy life of four. Now, it feels like a promise broken.

Processing Grief

We know how to process grief and guilt when humans die — or at least we have rituals, frameworks, and words for it. But can the same yardstick be applied when it comes to animals, especially our pets?

They’re meant to entertain us, offer companionship, and help us feel kinder and more compassionate — the kind of people who can clean up the litter, spend on their healthcare, and claim empathy as a virtue.

Yet, when they die, the grief and guilt often remain unprocessed. There are no rituals, no closure, no shared language for that quiet ache.

We are simply clueless, uncertain about what the “right” way is to mourn or to make peace with the lives of the animals who live with us — and around us.

Right now, all I know— all I feel— is that when my time in this world is over, I want to see him first. I want to hold him close, whisper how sorry I am, and feel his soft warmth again before I meet anyone else I’ve lost along the way. I just want to find him waiting somewhere, the way he always did, so we can finally be together again.