Stories About the Loss of a Pet

Various Authors

 A Death in the Family

Every story of pet loss is unique, and each of us responds differently. The pain is unavoidable, but there's comfort in sharing our experiences. Here are just three of the many, many stories.

I. The Nature of the Beast (Anger, guilt and forgiveness)
II. Rites of Passage (Resentment and gratitude)
III. Saying Good-bye to an Old Friend (Glad to be sad) 
Seven Steps to Recovery

I. The Nature of the Beast (Anger, guilt and forgiveness)
By Gail Buchalter

My mornings generally began when I felt two blasts of air pouring from my dogs' noses as they watched my eyes twitch open. Gus, five, a 65-pound shepherd/Lab, and Annie, three and a half, a 90-pound Dane/Lab, knew to wait for an invitation to join the cats - Marley, 10, a large, tough tabby and Ziggy, nine, a sleek, black and white scaredy cat - already ensconced on my bed. The dogs would carefully land between the cats, who just snuggled in deeper.

Early one morning last November, I left my house, which is set in the middle of a vast expanse of Maryland farmland. When I returned home around midday, I discovered that Gus and Annie were gone. I looked quickly through the house, then immediately concluded that the invisible fencing had failed. I drove for hours searching for the dogs, returning home periodically, hoping to see their wagging tails. At some point I noted that Marley, who usually appeared when he heard my car, wasn't around either. Finally, after sunset, I gave up the search, utterly defeated.

I was sitting in the living room when I thought I heard a muffled noise coming from the second floor. Following the sound, I ran into the bedroom with the walk-in cedar closet. Relief poured through me as I realized that Gus and Annie hadn't escaped - they'd locked themselves in the closet. I always left the doors open because the cats loved to sleep on the shelves, but I'd never seen the dogs even enter the closet before. I turned the doorknob and pushed the door open, and the dogs came barreling out. My joy came to a shattering end. There was Marley, lying dead just inside the closet door. I'd been so worried about the dogs that this disaster was the last thing I'd anticipated. The dogs must have accidentally crushed him. Although I knew they didn't do it intentionally, I screamed at them to get away from me. At that moment, I had to get out of the house. My neighbor came and took me to her home, while her husband removed Marley's body from the closet.

It was horrible at home later that evening. I had adored Marley. He was like a dog in cat's clothing. He followed me everywhere, insisting on going for walks with the dogs and pushing his face into mine if he wasn't getting enough attention. Marley was my soul mate, and I missed him terribly. Still, I managed to find some solace in my three remaining pets.

Then, a week later, I came home and found Ziggy dead. He was lying on the floor of the sunroom near his favorite chair. Next to his body was Annie's collar. One part of me figured there had been a struggle, and Ziggy was the loser. Another part of me prayed that he'd eaten some kind of poison. I called my veterinarian and brought Ziggy in for a necropsy. The next day she called with the results. It was the answer I never wanted to hear - Ziggy's neck had been snapped, and some of Annie's hair was under his claws. Suddenly I was sure that Annie had also killed Marley.

The fact that I'd lost both of my cats was horrible, but knowing that Annie had killed them made it unbearable. I'd gotten Marley, Ziggy and Gus when they were all very young, but Annie was a year and a half when I rescued her from a no-kill shelter where she'd spent nearly half her life in a cage. Before I took her, I walked her past numerous cats sitting around the shelter, and she ignored them. The next day I took Gus to meet her. A friend walked Annie, and we all met up outside the shelter. Annie and Gus sniffed each other and began walking in unison as if they were lifelong friends. At home they played nonstop. The cats didn't even hiss at Annie, and she never looked at them threateningly. I couldn't believe the ease with which she fit into the family. Ziggy would even walk through her long legs, and she would gently lick his back.

These recollections added to my shock, which soon gave way to anger and feelings of betrayal. I hated Annie now. I introduced her to one guest as the "cat killer." I couldn't and didn't want to imagine the terror that Annie, Gus and Marley must have felt when they were confined for hours in a small, pitch-dark space. I was desperate for answers and understanding, because in my heart I knew that I shouldn't blame Annie. I contacted Pamela Reid, Ph.D, vice president of the ASPCA Center for Behavioral Therapy, hoping she could give me information that would help me forgive the dog.

"Annie has no concept of what she did," Reid told me. "She did what a dog is capable of doing. Given that she got along well with the cats prior to the closet experience, we can hypothesize that the overcrowding in the closest triggered a predatory response in her. Stress often provokes aggression in animals, and they tend to pick on the weakest.

"You can't get into the head of an animal," Reid continued. "All you can do is concentrate on the behavior. You didn't see a change in your dog's behavior following Marley's death, but something happened that triggered the same reaction, and she saw the other cat as prey. If you know what triggers an animal's behavior, then you can work to modify it."

Once again I got news that I didn't want to hear. Since I will never know what triggered Annie, this meant that I could never again have cats while I had her. But I loved having both. I was never a "cat" person or a "dog" person. I loved my guys equally and for their very differences. Yet I couldn't just write off Annie. She was good-natured, desperate to please, loved people and was Gus's best friend. And she adored me. I felt trapped. I was overcome with guilt when I thought about getting rid of her. Dr. Reid confirmed that Annie hadn't killed the cats out of meanness. It wasn't premeditated murder - she wasn't a human being. She explained that applying human emotions to the situation just muddied the waters.

Annie had had a tough life herself. And she was my responsibility. I couldn't just dump her as her previous owners had. My emotions had moved from anger to guilt. For weeks I cried daily for my cats, my dogs and for myself.

At this point I began thinking about a cat I'd had euthanized when I was 19 because he attacked people and was becoming more and more dangerous and harder to control. No one had offered me any alternatives, but for decades I've lived with the feeling that somehow, someway, I should have come up with a different solution. Today things are very different. There are psychologists, animal behaviorists, sensitivity-trained veterinarians, and pet loss groups, all offering help. Again, I picked up the phone. This time I contacted Dr. Stephanie LaFarge, a psychologist and the senior director of Counseling Services at the ASPCA. I explained my confusion about what I was feeling.

"Each loss evokes a previous loss and brings up something that might remain unresolved," LaFarge responded. "That's why it's so important to talk to people in terms of making this decision. You, as the person with the loss, may not be able to discern the right thing to do with your dog. You can't see that having an unmanageable, unadoptable cat who couldn't live in society isn't the same as the situation you're in now. If I had a dog who meant I couldn't have cats, and I wanted cats, and that dog was adoptable, I'd fault myself for not finding a new home for the dog where she would be loved. We know dogs can go from household to household and do really well. Annie is not in the right home if you want to be a cat owner."

Now I had permission to find Annie another home. It wouldn't be a decision that came from anger. It wouldn't be because she killed Marley and Ziggy, though I think that's sufficient reason to give her away. For the first time since I found Marley dead, the knots in my stomach began to dissolve.

"Once you realized that giving Annie away wouldn't make you a bad person, you could get beyond your guilt," said Laurel Langoni, the director of Colorado State University's Argus Institute for Families and Veterinary Medicine, which sponsors sensitivity training for veterinarians and pet-loss support groups. I'd interviewed Langoni for another article I'd written, and I wanted her insights. "You made a commitment to Annie when you adopted her," Langoni said, "but the situation changed. Animals are supposed to enrich your life and the life of your family. If instead they create a problem in your life, then you need to reevaluate and correct that situation. Dealing with Annie and the loss of your cats are two separate issues. You've been dealing with so much that you haven't been able to give your cats the grieving time they deserve. You're finally free to grieve for them."

As I wrote the last paragraph, tears fell down my cheeks. I miss Marley and Ziggy so much, and I know I'll miss Annie if I give her away. With my husband dead and my son grown, Marley, Ziggy, Gus and Annie had become my family. It was a devastating lesson to learn that a beloved pet is first and foremost an animal. Yet it is for that reason that I'm able to forgive Annie - and, ironically, also give her away, because now I know she could thrive in another home.

During this turmoil, an opportunity arose to vacation in Mexico, and I grabbed it. I would deal with finding a great home for Annie when I returned. When I picked the dogs up at the kennel a week later, they were ecstatic to see me. I, in turn, was delighted to see both of them. I decided to try to keep Annie.

Six months later, however, I realize that I'll never look at Annie the same way again. Still, I want her to be happy and loved. If I could find her the perfect home, I'd give her up now. Yet if I can't, I'll keep her. Having pets is one of life's most pleasurable experiences; it's also a tremendous commitment and responsibility.

Gail Buchalter is a freelance journalist based in Rhodesdale, Maryland.

II. Rites of Passage (Resentment and gratitude)
By Tina Traster

The rabbi at Hevrah Synagogue in Stockbridge, Massachusetts welcomed the congregants to rise for the kaddish, the mourner's prayer. The setting was cozy, and the rabbi asked each mourner to name the deceased and state their relationship. I hesitated for a moment, wondering whether it was appropriate to stand for a four-legged creature, my beloved shih tzu, but my husband nudged me with his eyes. "Chelsea, my dog," I said, when my turn came. The rabbi nodded, and I collapsed into tears. It had been months since Chelsea died, but the pain seared through my flesh and bones.

Human death is buffered by a series of rituals, from time off work to family support to funerals. Not so for our creatures. Dealing with an animal's death is a far more haphazard event. There are no assumptions about what a grieving person needs. There is no template for how society handles the tragedy.

Chelsea died about a year ago. He died on a Tuesday night. I spent Wednesday alone because my husband felt compelled to go to his then-tenuous job. His employer would not allow him additional time off because he'd already taken his personal and vacation days.

I drifted through the day, lingering on the telephone with friends, weeping. My husband called several times to check on me. He was handling funeral details, which was the only thing that gave my day purpose. When the arrangements were made, I called my mother. "Chelsea will be buried at Hartsdale Pet Cemetery on Saturday," I said. "The funeral will be at 11 A. M."

"We have an appointment that day," my mother said. She and my father had a bridge game.

Stung with hurt, I called a couple of close friends and my cousins in New Jersey. They jotted down the details and said they'd be there. Jack and Judith, my upstairs neighbors and the guardians of Chelsea's longtime companion, Chloe, also made a commitment to come. Even my ex-husband promised to attend. I'd contacted him, even though we hadn't spoken in a year, because I knew how much he cherished Chelsea. He cried when I broke the news.

Chelsea died six weeks after doctors told me he had a nasal tumor, a rare form of cancer in animals. I chose not to subject him to radiation treatment because he was 12 years old, but I expected he would live for several months following the diagnosis. Except for the struggle to breathe through his nose, he remained vibrant, sociable and alert.

Chelsea deteriorated rapidly over a span of 48 hours, first showing no interest in food and eventually rising up and collapsing repeatedly with labored breathing. The Animal Medical Center in New York gave him oxygen on Sunday, and his local veterinarian tried insulin on Monday. By Tuesday he was near death, but the veterinarian assured me he could go on like this for several days. We asked the vet to come to our apartment to euthanize Chelsea, and my husband held him to the end. I thrashed in the bedroom, crying hysterically, aware at times that I was hyperventilating. My husband clipped a lock of Chelsea's silky hair.

On Friday, we drove to Hartsdale Cemetery, about 40 minutes north of Manhattan, to pick out a casket, gravesite and headstone. My husband called his employer and said we had a medical emergency. Hartsdale is an eternal refuge of love perched on a grassy knoll in Westchester County. More than 100,000 animals, including one lion cub, rest in this former apple orchard, today the oldest pet cemetery in America. Tributes to animals engraved on small headstones tell the story of unconditional love. Some headstones are festooned with photographs of the departed. For Chelsea, I chose a pink marble monument inscribed with the words "Chelsea: My Heartbeat, My Heart," and adorned with his portrait.

The next day was the funeral. My small entourage, including Chelsea's dog friend, Chloe, gathered first for a private viewing in the main house and then trekked down the hill to the open grave. It was a chill winter's day with dim sunshine. My husband read a poem he'd written about Chelsea. Everybody said a few words. I thanked Jack and Judith, a couple about the age of my mother and father, for being good surrogate parents to Chelsea, and to me. Judith gave me a book on grieving. My ex-husband said Chelsea was a unique soul.

Returning to the car, I wondered why my cousins hadn't shown up. When we last spoke, they were coming. They never called to tell me they weren't. Two months later, I let them know that I was surprised and disappointed that they didn't attend. My cousin told me that they had a very busy schedule that weekend and just couldn't fit it in...

In the Jewish religion, a funeral is followed by a shiva, a week-long period of mourning after the burial of a close relative. I didn't expect family to gather around me. Instead, my husband and I retreated for the Berkshires in Massachusetts where we rent a place that feels like home. I brought pictures of Chelsea with me. Darielle, Chelsea's onetime dog walker and occasional petsitter, had heard the news and called. "Sunshine and Blu (her deceased canines) came down to Earth and took Chelsea back with them to heaven," she said, assuring me that his soul was still with me. I think she was right. At night, he appeared in my mind's eye, not so much in a dream as in a vision. I could feel his presence. I wanted to smell him.

For several weeks, I was angry with my parents. In an effort to extend an olive branch, my mother said she would like to visit Chelsea's grave.

I go to Chelsea's resting place once a month, and of course I'll be there when the one-year anniversary rolls around in December. As a matter of Jewish religious tradition, there is an unveiling of the headstone on the first anniversary of a loved one's death. This is a time when friends and family come to pay their respects. But our visit to Chelsea's grave will be a private affair for my husband and me. We will recount the joy that Chelsea brought to our lives. I will remember with gratitude those who held me up in my time of grief. I will try to forgive those who made such a painful moment all the more painful.

Tina Traster is a freelance writer based on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

III. Saying Good-bye to an Old Friend (Glad to be sad)
By Janet Periat

She insinuates herself between me and my cup of tea, her face inches from mine. She leans forward, we rub noses. But I'm thirsty, and I end our love session by bringing the cup of tea to my lips. She sniffs the tea and looks at me. Why am I drinking something that puts a barrier between us, yet smells so boring?

There's a part of me that wonders why I'm not putting down my tea and accepting every gesture of affection that I can from my furry little friend. Because I know our time together is growing short. Forty-Three, the best cat I've ever been owned by, is dying.

I remember our first meeting. She, a stray, jumped down onto my shoulders from a warehouse shelf and licked my face. It was like she was greeting a long lost friend. It was like she'd been waiting for me.

Forty-Three has been with me through six careers, a college degree, two houses, two husbands and six rival cats. And through it all, for 15 years, our relationship has continued to deepen. I don't think I've ever been this close to a cat before.

That's why it's been so hard for me to watch as my friend's health slowly deteriorates. Her body, once limber and lithe, creaks now; the skin sags off her old bones, and her eyes are clouded with age. One day she barely gets up to eat. The next morning, she's waiting for me at the foot of my bed. Four days later, her dilated, lost eyes and wobbly balance tell me that she probably had a small stroke overnight. And then somehow, in subsequent days, she brings herself back. The look in her eye gets a little sharper, she bats at a bag. I figure the only reason she's still alive is because of love. Because I love her so much. I feel like she's staying alive because she doesn't want to leave me. I feel like she loves me as much as I love her.

Non animal-lovers will say all this talk of love on the cat's part is all projection on my part. But I know love when I see it. And I see it every time I look deep into my friend's foggy old eyes. Even when she's disoriented, barely able to walk, when I go to her, she looks up at me and purrs. I just wish I never had to say good-bye to her.

Nevertheless, I do not distance myself from her because she's leaving. Even though I'm spending many days crying over her, I have no regrets about the pain I feel. And when she finally goes, I will embrace that devastation. Because I know what that pain means. It means I was able to open up fully to another being and love her.

It seems like many people spend their lives avoiding pain. They don't allow themselves to get too close to others, or to their own pets, for fear of the pain of loss. What they don't understand is that grief is a celebration of love. To shut off that channel cuts us off from the greatest gift we have in this life: the ability to love and be loved.

By the time you read this, she'll probably be gone. But don't feel sad for me. I'm lucky to have found such a wonderful friend, such a hell of a cat. And when I read my story in your magazine, I'll cry all over again. I'll still miss her so much.

Based in Pescadero, California, Janet Periat is a regular columnist for CoastViews, a magazine on the arts and entertainment in California.

Seven Steps to Recovery
By Moira Allen

Losing a cherished companion animal can bring deep sadness - and often other emotions, such as guilt, anger, and depression. Here are steps you can take to help manage your feelings at this time.

1) Accept your grief. It's not something to be avoided, battled, or "gotten over." Seek out friends who understand the bond with a companion animal and can offer uncritical support.

2) Keep busy. You can take control of your grieving process by keeping to your normal daily routine (such as work, family duties, grooming your remaining cat or playing catch with your dog).

3) Count your blessings. Grief focuses you on your loss - so take stock of what you haven't lost. Include family, friends, other companion animals, and anything else that's important to you.

4) Channel guilt into growth. The death of a pet can bring powerful feelings of guilt, especially when it involves euthanasia or an accident. Put those feelings to use to improve the lives of other animals. If, for example, your companion died from antifreeze poisoning, commit yourself to educating others about this danger.

5) Seek closure. Find a way to acknowledge the ending of your companion's life, such as a funeral service or memorial tribute. One way to do this is to create a written, photographic or artistic memorial that highlights favorite memories.

6) Decide not to be hasty. Impulsive acts, such as disposing of your companion's belongings, or rushing out to get a new companion, may be decisions you'll later regret. Take time to process your feelings.

7) Seek help. While there's no "standard" duration for grief, the pain of loss normally eases over time. Sometimes, however, other issues can complicate the grieving process. If your feelings of sorrow or guilt have not diminished after several months, you may wish to join a pet loss support group or meet with a counselor who specializes in this type of bereavement.

Moira Allen (www.pet-loss.net) has an M.Ed. in counseling, and is the author of Coping with Sorrow on the Loss of Your Pet (Alpine Publications). She lives in Chantilly, Virginia.

© 2002

ASPCA Animal Watch - Winter 2002

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