Feb 8

Feb 8 On Grieving Our Pets

This is a blog post I’ve had rolling around in my head for some time, but I haven’t put pen to paper…or screen, as the case may be. I’ll start by saying I’m not an expert. I’ve also never lost a soul dog who spent years and years as part of my life, my identity, my self. When that times comes for me, it will truly knock me off the course of my life and I really don’t know what I will do. But I lost my childhood dog, I had to let go of my first dog as an adult in 2018 (though she was adopted with the knowledge that she was terminal), I have had to be part of the decision and be present for the euthanasia of a former foster, have known about the loss of a large handful of our former foster dogs, and we are currently 9 months in to a fospice (foster hospice) situation with a dog who was given a tentative prognosis of 6-12 months (though he could very well live forever if he can survive on rage alone). I also have the privilege of working with and speaking to many people in this situation, and I do my best to offer help, even if it’s just a listening and understanding ear. So I just hope this may help someone feel a little less alone or unsure at a terrible time. If it does, mission accomplished.

What it feels like to love and lose

First of all…I hope no one ever says to you “it’s just a dog.” It’s just a dog in the way the sun just rises, or your thoughts just happen, or you just exist. Our dogs, and our relationships with them, are a part of ourselves in a way that few other relationships ever are. The conversations we have with them, whether out loud or in our heads, are formed entirely of our own brains. It’s amazing how much of a relationship with a pet is a relationship with the self. And when we lose that pet, we also lose that part of ourselves (though I think an amazing exercise is to try to keep that going, as much as we can, when we need to call on the strength they gave us.) Our pets are our comfort, our confidants, they are our only companions some days. If the pandemic has shown us anything, it’s how much we need interaction, and how much joy pets can bring through just their presence in our lives. That is simply undeniable.

For me, the best metaphor I’ve ever heard for what it feels like to love a pet, and then to lose one, is the book series His Dark Materials (The Golden Compass). In the series, “a daemon is the external physical manifestation of a person’s “inner-self” that takes the form of an animal…it is separate from and outside its human, despite being an integral part of that person…ie they are one entity in two bodies” (Wikipedia). To me anyway, that’s how Penny and Loo feel. Like part of my inner self that exists outside my body. When a daemon is separated from its person, it causes extreme pain and distress for both the human and the daemon. In the books, a person having the link between themselves and their daemon permanently separated is so painful it can cause death. It’s described as “an iron hand pulling one’s heart out between one’s ribs.” While the pain of losing our soul animals may not result in death, it is not surprising that it can feel possible. Grief and heartbreak may not kill us, but when we’re in the crest of the wave it certainly feels possible to drown.

The slow decline or the rapid descent

Often people reach out to me when they are in the preliminary stages of grief. I’ll hear from someone who’s dog was diagnosed with cancer, or renal failure, or heart failure. If the pet previously seemed healthy, to hear a terminal diagnosis can be both devastating and shocking. I often wonder what is worse, having to watch your beloved pet deteriorate over time, or a shocking rapid decline. I think the worst way to lose a pet, or anyone for that matter, is probably an accident or fatal event that comes out of absolutely nowhere, but usually with animals it’s our decision to make, which means it’ll be either a rapid decline or a slow one. There are terrible parts and redeeming parts to both of those situations.

With a slow decline, we are given some time to adjust. Time to prepare. We have time to research, to try diet modifications, to try things like chemotherapy or radiation, to plan out a bucket list. We also have to watch as our once vibrant companions lose steam, as walking becomes hard, as they stop eating with gusto, we buy wheelchairs and wagons, we become desperate to make them eat. When the decline is slow, we are constantly in an uphill trudge against time. It’s a slow climb, against a mudslide, never sure where the top of the mountain is, only sure this can’t be it yet. The question becomes how to know when it’s time to stop climbing, because the truth is there is no peak, only the point at which we admit we can’t, and won’t, go on. The point at which we’ll turn back, and stop pushing, and let the mudslide of grief take us back down, alone, to deal with what’s left behind.

On the flip side, there is the situation where the decline is rapid. Where a seemingly healthy pet “all of a sudden” isn’t eating, sleeping, is panting in pain, is really sick. This is hard not just because it happens suddenly, but because we start to blame ourselves for everything we could have done differently. The little subtle signs we didn’t notice. The weight loss, the tiredness, the abnormal scratching or panting. Every little detail becomes significant, and we berate ourselves for not doing something sooner. If only, if only, if only becomes the ever-present chant in our heads. While it may have bought a little time, most of the time there was nothing more we could have done. Dogs and cats are extremely good at hiding pain. By the time they let on that they’re suffering, it’s often too late to change the course of a disease. A dog who played on Thursday may decide not to eat dinner on Friday and by Saturday may be bed bound, the cancer that had seemed so far in the future now fully engulfing their insides.

That’s how it was with Gert. We knew her lymphoma could come back, but she seemed to be doing so well. She saw a vet for acupuncture every few weeks who wanted her on a diet for her arthritis and he never said her weight loss was abnormal, even though I asked. Do I wish he hadn’t assured me it was normal? Yes of course. Do I blame him? For a little while I did. But the reality is even knowing the cancer was back probably wouldn’t have changed much, other than letting us do a few more things on her bucket list before she was too sick to enjoy it. And we might not have let her play so hard with the other dogs, which she loved. In the end, the rapid decline was hard, but I think in some ways she took it easy on us. We had 2 nights of sleepless, tearful, utter pain. She went from playing on Thursday to not being able to stand up, potty, or sleep on Sunday. We let her go only 2 days after she just suddenly didn’t finish her dinner, after an emergency vet visit, and a follow up with the oncologist. We decided to let her go at home, and give her that final peace, to take away her pain and take it upon ourselves.

I always say that with fosters, the day you know they’re leaving and the day that they leave are the most painful. I think that’s somewhat true for dying pets too. The day you find out that they’re sick, that they’re terminal, that the end is coming, ties for the worst. Sometimes, that day is long before the day they go. Sometimes it’s right up against it. Sometimes it’s the same day. The debate is whether it’s harder or easier to have fewer days in between those worst two days. I imagine this is different for each person, and each animal. Watching Scully now, whose decline is certainly slower, I often wonder how we’ll know when it’s his time. What will his signs be to us that he’s ready? He stumbles and slides often, and has a hard time standing back up. He coughs more, and some days he sounds really congested. Still, he seems ok. He eats with gusto, in fact demands we feed him on his schedule. If he ever doesn’t eat, we will know he’s lost his life’s joy, and we’ll take it from there. We’ve had a few moments where he doesn’t want to eat, and I panic. But so far, he just seems to be wanting wet food. I know the relief I feel when he gobbles it down is foreshadowing of what’s to come. But today is not the day.

How to let go

Once we decide when we will let them go, we have to prepare. First is the physical preparation. We have to decide how and where we will do it. For many of us, the best answer is to find a vet that will come to the house and let them go at home. Those vets usually have a service they work with that will also take the body and let you choose how you want to cremate, if that’s the way you want it to go (and there are many things you can do with their ashes to remember them. I have a separate blog post on the diamond we made from Gert’s ashes). Things to consider are the environment at home, if you have a lot of other pets who may have stranger danger and cause more anxiety by having a strange person in the house, and if your animal may be more comfortable somewhere else quieter. In COVID times, this option became pretty impossible for a lot of people in this already heart wrenching situation. Most vets are allowing at least one person inside to say goodbye if you have to let go at the vet’s office, or it’s worth asking if they will come out to the car and perhaps you can let your pet lay on the backseat, or on the ground outside on a bed, looking at the trees and grass, if they enjoy that. There is no easy way to let them go, but we can try to make them as comfortable as possible. I think the most important thing is to have the people they love with them. Many people think they can’t stay with their pet because it’ll be too hard. As hard as that moment is, the pet doesn’t know. Stay with them, don’t make them wonder where you went. Take on their pain, through that last moment, as our final gift.

Look for the gratitude

Once they’re gone, we’re left standing in the crater of their loss. No matter the size of the animal, we stand in the emotional pit they’ve left, and it is mammoth. It’s incomprehensible. How do you measure and take stock of what no longer surrounds you when you’re standing in its absence? Just give in to it. Do whatever you need to do that day to survive to the next one. Crying, screaming, eating, walking, medication, alcohol (not mixed together, and safely consumed). When there is no up, there is no way out. Allow yourself time to be angry, sad, defeated. To declare you will never love another thing or person or animal, as long as you live, to avoid the pain. To wish you had never crossed paths. To wish you didn’t have to go on, alone, at all.

And then, when you’re ready, look for the gratitude. For some of us, with some of our animals, it will be easier to find. For me after Gert passed, I was so thankful almost immediately, starting the next day. We went to an apple orchard with the other girls, just to give them and us something else to do. It rained, but we went anyway. We wore our Gert shirts. We stood in the rain and let it soak us, and we stared at the sky, and we cried. And then we came home and made apple crisp and we talked about her. Then we sat in silence. Then we cried some more. Then I wrote a blog post about her life, and I realized how quickly I was able to feel the gratitude for the fact that we had known and loved her. That for 9 months she trusted us, she loved us, she inspired us, she made our family whole.

Because we knew Gert was terminal, I think we had a much easier transition to the gratitude. For the girls who came into my life as young dogs, who will have become as much a part of me as my marriage, or my home, or my career, who are part of my identity and soul and heart, I’m sure this transition will not be as graceful. I don’t know how long it will take me to reach gratitude. I am sure I will get there one day.

In summary

There’s no right or wrong way to grieve. There are some books out there on the subject (many of them have great reviews, though I haven’t read any myself). But it’s not really talked about much by many people. My hope is that we can start to pull apart this grief, that we can acknowledge how truly real, visceral, raw, and insurmountable it can be, and that we can hold space for those who are going through it. Wherever you are in your journey with grief, whether you are terrified of it someday in the future, if you are facing a terminal prognosis, or if you are right up against the thick of it, I hope this helps at least a little to know you’re not alone. Unfortunately, the worst part of having a pet is the best part. That at the end of their lives, we often get the responsibility and privilege to make the decision of when and how to let them go. We can take their pain on ourselves, so they don’t feel it. What a terrible responsibility, and what an awesome, powerful gift to give those who give us their whole lives’ dedication. And someday when I am left to pick up the pieces of my absolutely shattered, gutted self, I will try to hold on to how they would go on, and make them proud of me…I will do it again. They deserve it.