I told close friends about Sasha’s grave at the time, but never felt I could make it known to a wider audience. But two years later, I am ready to tell you all how that cat turned her own burial into a comedy show.
Sasha had had a series of ‘bad news’ days at the vet since 2022. First, frequent bouts of snotty nose, investigated as far as possible but without conclusions. Then a verdict of early stage renal failure in 2023, meaning a special diet. She’d had a heart murmur since 2013 and had a couple of minor fits in 2024; both judged by the vet as conditions to be watched rather than treated. In 2025, a diagnosis of diabetes and arthritis.
You get the idea. This was a cat in poor health. Renal failure meant she might live for another eighteen months to three years, but the other problems added a spiteful joker to that pack. We’d noticed days where she had low energy and wondered whether this was ‘it’, only to have her stomp up to us a day later in full grumpy grandma mood and give us the silent miaow for attention.
January first 2025 was one of her low energy days. Sasha didn’t come up to see us in the morning and didn’t eat much all day, preferring to sleep on her blanket in the front room. By January second, we were checking her every hour and discussing whether this was time. She was seventeen and a half; roughly equivalent to 86 years old for humans. The vet was monitoring her condition by taking blood samples every few months and this had begun to upset her, so it was touch and go whether we let her sleep away her last days or took her in to ensure she went painlessly, meaning her last moments of life were in the place that she associated with bad smells and sharp needles.
By January third, it was clear that something was seriously wrong. She’d eaten a few bites of breakfast and wandered unsteadily back to her blanket to curl up and sleep. Her medication was up to date and her ketone test registered well within safe levels; there was no indication that a vet visit might magic up an improvement. We decided that unless she showed any signs of pain or distress, we would let her pass away quietly at home.
We sat with her for a few minutes, watching her sleep. Her breathing was slow, she didn’t react when we stroked her and her fur felt rough under our fingers. We made sure the room was warm and crept away. Neither of us could settle to anything. The new year’s optimism had gone; we were waiting to lose the last cat we had. Maybe the last cat we’d ever have. We went out into the garden. We’d chosen her resting place a few years ago; between her brother and the fluffy tom who had followed the tabby siblings like a younger cousin throughout his short life. The three of them had been like a gang of cheery teenage boys in their day, and we wanted them to stay together in eternity.
Damp dripped from the bare branches and there was ice in the forecast. The ground was wet and it would freeze hard. I suggested that we make a start. Digging a cat’s grave – properly digging a grave – involves a couple of hours’ work even in warmer times, lying on the ground at the final stage to scoop the last fragments of soil from four feet down. I don’t want the next occupants of this house to dig in the garden and turn up cat remains. And it always, always rains on us as we’re digging. I know the sky doesn’t cry, but it’s hard enough to bury a cat you’ve loved for years without being cold, wet, and disrespectfully keen to get the job done fast and get indoors.
We put all our fury and sadness into hacking at the stony and compacted soil, stopping occasionally to wonder whether we should be sitting with her on what might be her final afternoon. I went in to check on her and she was still asleep, still breathing. I stroked her gently and returned to the garden to take over the spade and let him stretch his back.
We were about eighteen inches down by the time the light began to fade, and I was kneeling on the cold wet earth to scoop out the dirt he was cutting loose. I was considering my cat group. We run a Secret Santa-Paws every year, and her anonymous Santa had responded to my wish of something soft for an elderly and arthritic cat by sending a blanket. Sasha was sleeping on it now. I wouldn’t tell them that she had died on their thoughtful gift, and I wouldn’t bury her in it – acrylic doesn’t rot – I’d wash it and pass it on to a cat rescue for some poor stray to rest on. No, I had an old cotton towel to wrap her in. If you dig in our garden and uncover a corner of old towel or T-shirt, stop digging.
Then we heard an awful sound.
The cat-flap. Clacking open and shut. I scrambled up and we both watched as Sasha came stomping across the grass towards us. I swear, we both stood in front of the grave and he hid the spade behind his back. We must have looked like kids caught nicking chocolate bars. She came striding over to us with That Look on her face – narrowed eyes, suspicion. I know, that’s not how cats show their feelings; but years of pretending innocence of minor crimes under the judgemental gaze of our mammas has struck fear of That Look into our minds.
We tried to lead her inside, but she dodged around us and went to inspect the hole. If she could have said ‘Hmmph’ in a disapproving tone, she would have. I scooped her up gently and took her inside for a feast of turkey scraps and her favourite renal food. She scoffed it all to the bottom of the bowl and went to sleep, one eye zinging open occasionally in a way that said; “Not dead yet.”
Don’t jump the gun. Don’t count your chickens till they’re hatched. And never dig a cat’s grave unless you’re certain she won’t catch you in the act.
