Pet Bereavement – a personal story

On 14th April 2024, we made a very difficult decision to say goodbye to our beloved Cavalier King Charles Spaniel Lily.

Eight months on, we’re still gripped by our grief and adjusting to life without her. I reflected and decided to write about our experience of pet loss.

With a staggering 36 million pets in the UK, I thought I couldn’t possibly be alone in the experience of pet loss. Pet companionship is marked as far back as Roman times, when Romans were known to create tombs for their dogs and give them epitaphs to remember them by. A post I came across recently shared an inscription which said, “I am in tears, while carrying you to your last resting place as much as I rejoiced when bringing you home with my own hands 15 years ago”.

95% of pet owners see their pets as part of the family, so it’s no wonder that grieving a pet can be just as painful as losing any member of the family.

So where does the stigma come from? How many times have we heard the phrase, “Oh, it’s just a dog”?

As part of my day job, I have lots of conversations with people who’ve in one way or another been shamed for how they are feeling in their grief. And I feel this exists for pet loss just as much, if not more.

Disenfranchised grief, where certain types of losses are not culturally or societally acknowledged, sadly does exist. This might be around an unrecognised relationship, or where there’s been a stigma around the death, or a type of “hierarchical” nature which may see other losses as less significant. 

A recent article in Psychology Today talked about the general stigma around death and dying, and the fear we humans have in facing mortality, stating: “If a culture naturally avoids the conversation and topic of death, experiencing the grief from someone who has lost a pet can be extra uncomfortable.” If we acknowledge death, it forces us to face our own.

We welcomed Lily into our home on the 23rd May 2013, a significant day, as well as being also my birthday. She was a very well-behaved puppy but cheeky, bouncy and full of adventure. As time went on, and she received a life fit for royalty, she soon learnt how good she had it and turned into what our friends called “the Mariah Carey of Cavaliers”. She loved to greet people wherever she went, adored an ear scratch, sleeping in the sunshine and woofing at the neighbours. She was well and truly spoilt in her life, to the point where she knew the “what3words” location of the local deli and who to give her puppy dog eyes to, to get her free piece of ham or beef.

 As we move through the waves of grief, and as time moves on without her, most of my difficulty lies in the disbelief that she is no longer with us. As you read this, you might resonate with that or may even be feeling that now if someone you love has recently died.  Where are they? Why are they not here? What do you mean they don’t exist anymore?

We don’t have a huge family, and for much of my life I have lived away from most of my family members. I’m not a stranger to grief and have experienced quite a lot of (human) grief. In these situations, at times I’ve almost been able to trick my mind into thinking that a family member is just “away”, living in a town away from me. But what happens when you lose someone whom you see every waking moment? Someone you see in every hour with, every evening, every time you come home? That’s the reality you cannot avoid when you lose a pet.

A pet whose life is built around, who you see in every section of the house; snoozing on the sofa, waiting in the kitchen, sniffing around the garden, barking at the gate, I could go on. And not to mention the fur glitter they embed into every nook and cranny of the house. How can you possibly escape the disbelief that they are no longer there when all you can see is emptiness in everywhere you look?

For many weeks after she died, I couldn’t stop replaying her last moments in my mind. We were fortunate enough to be able to have our vets come out to us in our home, something we had discussed months prior. They were fantastic vets who made it happen, even on a Sunday at 6 am in the morning, no questions asked. “We’ll be there in 45 minutes,” the vet said to us after our second call to the out-of-hours number.

We talk about having “a good death” a lot in the organisation I work for, and the importance of conversations before someone dies. This was something I hadn’t previously had when my Mum died in 2012, and the impact this had on my grief was detrimental to my mental health and overall general experience in the act of grieving itself.

So, being able to have conversations between my husband and me about when “the time comes” and where we wanted her to be, when it was time, we knew exactly what we wanted.

When my Mum died, we didn’t have any conversations or awareness about her upcoming death. Now, I have also experienced the opposite of that. I’ve often wondered which is harder to endure, but in truth, no death or grieving is easy. With Lily, I did find myself replaying over everything that happened in those early morning hours when she took her last breath, though in reality, her death was beautiful.

We said goodbye to Lily whilst she was in her favourite spot on the sofa, snuggled up next to me. The sun shone through the living room window, and she “went to sleep” with her head in my hand.

“Yet somehow, amid all this blackness, there are hints of optimism to be found. Love, here, has such power that it seems worth the pain of its ending.”

I recently read in the book ‘The Wintering’ a passage which reads: “Yet somehow, amid all this blackness, there are hints of optimism to be found. Love, here, has such power that it seems worth the pain of its ending”.   I think this sums up our grief perfectly.

After reading the book “From Here to Eternity”, it made me think about some of the norms following death and the difference between how we honoured my Mum and Lily. Although on the one hand, I feel there’s a stigma around pet loss, I personally found the rituals after Lily’s death more accepting, intimate and meaningful.

Lily’s ashes sit in our living room, we took her paw and nose prints and have kept locks of her fur. We got to visit her at a place of rest, like we did with my Mum, before she was cremated.

However, I remember the contrast of leaving the funeral home after my Mum’s ashes were handed to me (I got in the car and found humour in having to put her in the cup holder!), to collecting Lily where I was handed a beautiful bag, handles tied with a pink bow.

So, what now? Our lives have changed, our routines are different, and her lead hasn’t been touched in months. How do we keep going?

My therapist talks about continuing bonds and how we can keep our connections and a thread to those we love who are no longer physically here. To be connected to her even in her absence.

For me, that connection is through the bandana I wear of hers every day (she had a lot of them!) and her dog toy, which came home with her as a puppy, and that now resides on top of my pillow where she used to sleep every night. We talk about her and even use her ‘voice’ (are you even a pet owner if your pet doesn’t have a “voice”?!), and we revisit the places we loved going to with her, to which I’m going to end on.

On 9th June 2023, we climbed the third-highest mountain in Wales, Pen Y Fan, with Lily and some friends. Lily was 10 years old and had been medicated for heart disease for 18 months. It was a huge achievement and a momentous day for all of us.

On 9th June 2024, just over a month after she died, we decided to do it again and scatter some of her ashes at the top. Friends travelled to meet us there, and we began the climb at 7:15 am. It was a tough climb, and I couldn’t help but think, ‘How on earth did she manage this at the age of 10?!’. I thought at moments I’d not be able to go on, but I did.

We reached the brow of the summit with a big sigh of relief. And we as walked to the marker, I saw my husband and friends turn around and look at me in disbelief. I was confused, turning to see what had caused them to pause – a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel was walking towards me with their family, wagging their tail!

We often refer to time as being linear, but in fact, scientists refer to a ‘bend of space and time’ (as Einstein’s relativity theory states).

So, considering this, once, we existed in these places, and so did she. And without the concept of time, in fact, she still does.

Support

• Blue Cross Pet Bereavement – chat live with a trained volunteer via their website

www.bluecross.org.uk/pet-bereavement-and-pet-loss

Helpline: 0800 096 6606

Email: plsmail@bluecross.org.uk 

So, considering this, once, we existed in these places, and so did she. And without the concept of time, in fact, she still does.