Coping with grief after the death of a pet

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The grief that follows the loss of a much-loved pet

This is a hard one to write.  It’s dedicated to our pets, who devote their lives to loving us, often unconditionally.  Coping with the grief that follows the death of a pet can err on debilitating and is an experience unique to each individual. The impression I’ve gained when talking to others, is that many of us feel embarrassed to admit how hard it can hit us. That losing a pet is to be expected, that it’s not the same as losing a person, therefore it shouldn’t have such a profound effect. And yet it does.

My pets

Although I grew up with dogs, my first pet as an adult was a cat.  I also had a dog but the ex-boyfriend got custody of her when we split up.  From age 22 to 32 I had Bert and he was the one constant during that time of my life.  He developed kidney failure and was put to sleep when he was 10.  Being present when your pet is euthanised is traumatic, no matter how kind or necessary it is.  You’re a brave person if you’ve ever had to do it.  

I didn’t have another pet for a while, instead I had two boys. Once they were older, I yearned for a dog to add to our family.  So when Poppy arrived, our little black ball of dog fluff, it brought a new energy into our home.  Only she had congenital kidney failure, something not obvious until she was four months old.  A month later she was put to sleep.  It was horrific and the grief was worse than losing Bert. Because I had children, the feelings of loss intermingled with every mother’s worst fear.

Ralph

I waited two years before the yearning grew once more, and that’s when my beloved Ralph arrived on the scene.  Since childhood my dream dog has been a golden show-type cocker spaniel.  I’ve always loved the cockers’ merry vibe. The show-type is a lot less energetic than the worker breed. They’re also great cuddlers and gorgeous to look at.  And Ralph was the most beautiful one I’d ever seen.  Plus his character was also like no other. He was a lunatic in the park or when he spotted a squirrel. The rest of the time he was the most affectionate boy.  Everyone who knew him loved him.  And as my boys entered and passed through their teenage years, he was my companion and source of devoted love.  

Then, at age 10, when in perfect health and still being routinely mistaken for a puppy (“… no, he’s actually 10, just young looking and very immature..”), he became ill overnight and the next day had to be put to sleep. The vet couldn’t find what had gone so dramatically wrong.  This was three months ago, and I’m still openly struggling with the loss. This huge void, where there was once a mountain of unconditional love, isn’t going anywhere.   

The loss of a person

I do feel a need to address that losing a pet is not the same as losing a person.  Both my parents are still here and I’ve never lost a partner. I did lose four people in my 20’s, three of whom were my age, each within a couple of years of the other.  I understand bereavement of loved ones and the grief is different.  There’s a sense of loss at what could have / should have been.  The loss of the potential to grow old together, or the fact that you had.  The loss of a pet, the loss of that special bond, is different, but still painful.     

Loss of a pet and grieving – there’s no escaping it

To seek help I read about the grieving process. A lot of the advice, I felt, could be applied to many forms of loss – person, pet, even the ending of a relationship.  It’s tempting to run from the grief or suffer in silence, but the collective advice is you’ll store trouble for later.  You have to cry or feel angry and try not to let guilt take shape, whether it’s about final moments or sometimes laughing and feeling content again.  And take strength from well-meaning words you receive, even if they’re clumsy or irrelevant; it shows people care about you.  Let people in and let the tears out – even if it means you cry in front of others. I’m the type who wouldn’t cry at a sad film, but at the moment I find tears flowing at unexpected times and places. A friend of mine lost both her mum and her dog within three months of each other. Both under traumatic circumstances. She would feel guilty about voicing her grief over losing her long-time companion; like somehow, the only topic should be how sad she is about losing her mum. Grief is unique in that there is no standard league table over what is more considered more ‘important’ or deserving of a higher ‘grief rating’.  

‘No one has ever cried forever’

I read a phrase today – no one has ever cried forever (Claire Bidwell Smith).  I also read an anonymous piece written to an online stranger, who was grieving the loss of their partner, by someone who had experienced the same.  They compared grief to being in a shipwreck – it’s incredibly poignant and a great metaphor (you can read it below).  

A more immediate source of comfort for those times when I felt alone, was to have Ralph’s possessions close by. Actually I don’t know how I would have managed the first week without his blanket, which still smelt of him. I also still have his favourite toy sitting in his favourite seat.

The harsh reality of the contract

I’ve been asked a few times if I’m going to get another dog. The answer has been a truthful no.  You see, the painful realisation I’ve had is that when you bring home a new pet, you are entering into a contract to take care of them for 0-15 odd years and then you’ll watch them die.  Harsh but that is the reality of it, and I’m not sure I could knowingly go through this again.  But.  As anyone who has given birth will tell you, you think ‘never again’ and then the memory fades and you go through it all once more because the love and joy you receive in return is worth it.

Ralph: 4th October 2013 – 11th December 2023

Gone but still dearly loved.

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

Taken from a Reddit page which you can access here.

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