Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professionals: a viable 'third' option for families to seek support from after a pet's death

One afternoon many years ago, when I was having a conversation with one of my families after their pet died, I heard a response to something I offered in an effort to be 'helpful'. What I didn’t realize is the exchange helped me to see grief very differently, and it eventually pushed me further along on a unique path that led me where I am now.

I have no interest in listening to other people talk about their experience losing their pet, about their grief…

This resonated with me deeply. At first I thought it was just me because I tend to be exceedingly private about my personal life, and that includes anything regarding the deaths in my midst. Understanding that, in looking back I’m not even sure why I even suggested that a pet loss support group meeting might be helpful to this person. I know now that was widely accepted as just what was available, accessible to those grieving the loss of a pet. I’m better equipped, today.

People in pet loss support groups… they’re focused on their grief -- as you would expect. How can I go there and have an expectation of being seen, heard, understood in what I’m going through by others if they’re grieving? And I certainly can’t be expected to support them. I don’t want to. I’m too caught up in what’s going on in my own head to do that.

Oh boy. I can remember uttering those words years later in my own grief. Or at least thinking them. And fast forward years later, I know why they came so easily to that person -- and me. My intuition was good back then, and I’m grateful that I followed it, eventually.

We are generally pretty instinctive about how we need to move through our grief, we just need the right space and environment to do it. It’s when we don’t have that, when we are told the only option we have to have any sliver of a chance in having our grief seen and heard is to share grieving space with others, and in many cases, before we’re ready.

We all have a different set of tools and skillset in our toolbox to be with our grief, to navigate through it. And of course that’s true -- we’ve unique experiences with death, various types of loss, and grief, well… grief can be a shapeshifter of sorts. It assumes any form that it can take, to be heard, seen, acknowledged in, which for many of those who I’ve served over the years, can be disconcerting. It’s resilient like that, grief. It demands to have a front row seat, to be in your lap. Or at least sit side car.

Our culture is so grief-resistant, grief-repellent even, that if we see, hear or feel someone that is navigating the death of a loved one (or become aware that it’s happening), and this is especially true with disenfranchised grief, like that due to the loss of a pet -- we’ll find any way to push it, and them -- away. And so, until not so long ago, those wading through grief from the loss of a pet felt like they had no choice but to huddle together in groups designed just for them. Or, as I’ve seen in my ongoing training, they might be directed to talk to a mental health professional. Yes, people who are expressing normal grief because they’ve lost an animal companion are being referred to pet loss groups, and if they indicate that they’re not down with participating in a group setting, they are often at best referred to a list of mental health professionals to contact, if they’re not ignored altogether.

What’s often interpreted by the grieving when that occurs?

They feel dismissed. They feel like the only place their grief is allowed to come out to breathe is with another group of people who are grieving too. Or they come away feeling like their grief is a pathology. And for those who have the desire to get defensive about making those recommendations to the grieving, please don’t shoot the messenger. This is feedback that I’ve gotten from families over the years.

And we need to be clear: grief is not a problem, not a pathology. Grief is normal. We all experience it. Yes, even when our pets die. (That said, in less-common cases, like those involving complicated grief, the involvement of a mental health professional is beneficial.)

What seems to be the missing from this conversation? Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professionals.

As those professionals, my colleagues and I trained in the art of being fully present to those grieving the loss of a pet -- not to assess or fix them, give them a road map, or resolve their grief. Our role is that of a bereavement caregiver, tending to those grieving and doing so without judgement, shame, grief ranking, or a prescription on how to grieve. We walk with the grieving. We hold space for them. We have earned the right -- earned the trust -- to hear the stories of those we serve.

The Companioning philosophy, developed by Dr. Alan Wolfelt, serves the grieving in a way that is antethetical to what can be more commonly seen in our culture -- as those who need to be ‘treated’. As you might have guessed, Companioning started out as a philosophy designed to be helpful to those mourning the loss of a human, and later, was scaled to meet the needs of those navigating pet loss. That doesn’t mean that one is more or less valuable than the other, rather it recognizes that the two experiences can be very different. One of the things that probably comes to mind in how that’s so is that euthanasia is in many cases a part of the landscape in pet loss, and that’s so very true.

Though we are trained to lead pet loss groups, many Pet Loss and Grief Companion professionals, like myself, find it more useful to offer our expertise by way of one-on-one time. In that format, the grieving person can have as much space as they need and express themselves freely, unencumbered. They are able to have themselves and their grief be heard, seen and acknowledged. We walk with those who have shared life with their pets who are either approaching their end or already have (anticipatory grief is just as gripping as the grief after a loss): yes, some people seek the help of a Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professional as they are navigating their pet’s later years not only when pets receive a life-limiting diagnosis or are wading through the fourth life stage. Those being Companioned also learn how to craft space for themselves, to advocate for themselves when they are faced with everyday situations where they don’t feel as supported as they should at work, home and elsewhere. Because quite honestly, not having interactions with others isn’t always a workable option -- and why should anyone have to wear a brave face constantly because their grief makes other people feel uncomfortable?

Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professionals bridge the gap that seems to exist when we lack the space to really be seen and heard in our grief by those in our midst, and with what else is available: pet loss groups and mental health professionals. The former isn’t conducive to moving through grief, and for many, the latter two aren’t necessary or useful. The truth is, as is evidenced by my experience in working with individuals in families after their pet’s death, the reason that things can get difficult as we grieve is that there is no healthy, natural atmosphere to give one and their grief the space they need -- or that space is squashed. Companions, whether we’re certified to work in a capacity associated with pet loss or that with the loss of a human, help create that space. And we’re experts on understanding that the real expert on grief, is the one experiencing it. Companioning doesn’t involve there, there attitudes or oh, I feel really bad for you, here… you should do this to feel better. It’s not sympathy, but empathy; it’s ...yes, this loss that you’re experiencing? It’s very real and hard and I can’t take it away, but I’m right here with you as you move through it.

Ahh yes, bearing witness.

Pet Loss and Grief Companioning is about working in our culture at-large to dismantle or at least weaken the notion that the grief over the loss of a pet somehow ranks lower than that of a human, that it belongs squarely in the category of disenfranchised grief, where it often sits now.

As Companioning professionals, we understand the essential needs of the mourning, and the importance of ritual in grief and how art, writing and other forms of creativity can be an expressive outlet for adults and children alike. Those whose focus is on pet loss understand how other family pets might be affected by a housemate’s death.

That said, most Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professionals are in some way tethered professionally or work in the trenches in the veterinary or pet care industries, though not all are.

After several years as a Certified Professional Pet Sitter, I had witnessed many an instance when one of my charges died, and their families were left with the kind of grief that only another that faced pet loss would recognize. I’d also experienced the loss of a companion animal -- three times in as many years, not to mention the death of my father not long before. What kept resonating through that journey is that grief deserves as much care and tending as new love (one won’t exist without the other, of course), and we don’t tell people to please get over your happiness, so why do that with grief?

And so, I made the decision after these experiences and others (including training as an end-of-life doula for humans, refining my hard and soft skills in working with pets who are in fragile health or dying and their families) to get more curious about what comes before, during and after a loss. My curiosity has proven to be a valuable asset, because that is essential to the Companioning philosophy. After discovering the Companioning model years ago, I decided to do the work of studying Pet Loss and Grief Companioning and earning my certificate under Coleen Ellis -- who herself graduated from Dr. Wolfelt’s grief studies program -- so that I could better serve my families and other individuals navigating through fresh or ripe grief after the loss of their beloved pet. And then I got more curious. I had more questions. And I studied and learned more about loss, grief, and how guilt, shame and judgement so easily swoop in as uninvited guests from outside and in and try to crowd out what’s really important as we mourn: being able to freely express ourselves when we need to in grief and being seen and heard as we do so. And I realized that my work as a Certified Professional Pet Sitter specializing in palliative, hospice and end-of-life care support allows me to have a unique perspective on loss and grief with the time I spend in the trenches, seeing what unfolds during these times of life, which is very much profound, intimate and personal for families.

It goes without saying that it seems logical for those mourning the loss of a pet to seek support in navigating their grief to gravitate toward a pet loss support group. It’s not uncommon for that bereaved person to mention to their pet care provider or veterinary practice staff that they are feeling the effects of a pet’s loss. It’s equally often the case that those professionals refer the person to a pet loss support group or a mental health professional.

And it’s important for all of them to know that while those are viable options and a fit for some, they are not the only ones. Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professionals are capable and highly-skilled in pet loss bereavement care and offer it using a philosophy that honors the grief journey, without seeing it as something that needs to be ‘treated’; we walk alongside the grieving person. As I say frequently in my work -- in borrowing a quote from Ram Dass -- “...we are all just walking each other home.”

For more on connecting with a Pet Loss and Grief Companioning professional, click here.

With over 20 years of experience in pet care and the past 10 of those focused on animal hospice, Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Animal Hospice Practitioner, Certified Hospice and Palliative Care Advocate and Certified Fear Free Professional. She is CXO of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC. She can be found at lorrieshaw.com.

Trigger-stacking and other causes of aggression in geriatric pets can move the conversation toward euthanasia

"Let's schedule a consultation well before any trip you've in mind to meet and get a feel for whether or not we're all a fit," I always implore once a family and I have a chance to make that initial connection by email or phone. 

They can also be assured that I'll be asking a lot of questions about their pet's health and behavior, as well as a history on both had how they've changed as they've aged or how their co-morbidities have progressed. I also do periodic re-assessments with my existing families with pets in fragile health or advanced age.

Because of my experience, it's not uncommon for families with pets with special needs—usually geriatric pets—because of their health and behavioral considerations to reach out for help with their care. It could be that they'll be traveling or need a hand while they're at work to tend to little or big things that contribute to the pet's comfort and well-being, not to mention the family's peace of mind.

You'll notice that I noted health and behavioral considerations. Those two things are very much united when we're talking about geriatric pets receiving palliative or hospice care. In fact, they're criteria, or need to be, when families receive a life limiting diagnosis for their pet, or when age-related decline has necessitated conversations about how to best help them. We have a lot of options for treating disease, or crafting a palliative or hospice care plan—but how that is carried out is another matter. Not only does the family need to be able to manage it, but so does the pet. I recall saying on one podcast that I guested on, "...we need the pet's permission and cooperation... they need choice [on whether or not to participate]." 

Pets are great communicators. My professional training, which includes a designation of dog bite safety educator and Certified Fear Fear Free Professional–pet sitter, I've not only learned to hone in on what a pet is telling me or those around them, but to use strategies to interact and care for them that match their changing physical, emotional and behavioral needs. A pet's sensory deficits (like vision and/or hearing), physical decline, pain level, how well they’ve slept and rested on a given day and any cognitive dysfunction can impact their ability to manage tolerating a treatment plan and being interacted with to have it in place. The same is true if a pet is touch averse or has behavioral challenges. I spend time talking with families about all of this, as well as how their absence alone can impact the pet's ability to cope, not to mention being in my care for any length of time. 

As I said, during a consultation, I have a lot of questions. I require a pet’s complete medical record, a veterinary wellness exam visit including bloodwork, urinalysis and an evaluation for pain, using a pain scale. Everything about their care plan is sussed out, including medications, and things like how easily they rest and eat among other things. In essence, it's vital that the pet be stable enough to be in my care. While all of that is the criteria that I use on my end, I also assess the companion animal from a behavioral and emotional standpoint, and gain an understanding of what’s in place for mental and environmental enrichment. If the pet had a history with a trainer or vet behaviorist, I require the written behavioral management protocol to be sent as well. 

It’s not uncommon that after reviewing everything that I recommend that a family connect with a credentialed trainer that I feel comfortable with who adheres to humane, positive reinforcement methods. This can be a huge help to the family to be more cognizant of their pet’s behavioral and emotional limitations. 

I'm not ashamed to say that there countless families that hear me say, 'I don't think that your pet will do well in my care, or in your absence at all' or 'I get the feeling that your dog could manage your being away for a long weekend, but ten days... no. That's too long.' I always offer facts to support what I mean so that I can advocate for the pet and myself, and I stick to my guns.

The truth is, when a pet enters the phase of palliative or hospice care, it's not only about daily management of a medical treatment or comfort care plan. It's about them having stability, predictability, and routine and I'll assert that is the core foundation of it all. Their emotional and behavioral well-being depends on that. So does my ability to promote safe interactions between me and the pet, something that can be more challenging as a pet moves through this phase of life.

And sometimes, I'm not confident that safe interactions between myself and the pet will be possible, and it is likely to be things that one might typically disregard. It can because the kinds of interactions that the pet requires to stay adherent to the treatment plan and feeling good, like being medicated, make them uneasy. Hygiene and needing help with that can be problematic for a pet. If a dog needs help physically getting around or help up from their bed or assistance getting up if their legs give out when they're walking (even with a sling) because of the all-too-common hind limb weakness, that can put me in a dangerous situation. Being out of routine and in the care of a less-familiar person can contribute, just like a family's absence can. Anxiety can increase during this phase of life or even present itself for the first time. All of these scenarios can stress the pet and lead to a nip or a serious bite. I clearly and compassionately articulate that, and give specific details why, because it's more common than not that what I'm seeing that the pet is demonstrating is that they are having trouble with trusted and known caregivers performing those tasks, too. 

And that means the human-animal bond with the family is at risk of being negatively impacted. 

The stuff that I've talked about already is a good example of what we in the pet care and training industry refer to as 'trigger-stacking'. Though, in this phase of life new triggers are often revealed simply because the pet's health needs require more frequent interactions and handling. I’m happy to report that there are nutraceuticals, supplements and prescription meds (a primary vet or vet behaviorist are best positioned to make recommendations for prescribing) and behavioral management protocols (a credentialed trainer or vet behaviorist team can guide this) that can be a big help in helping the pet manage better. 

This all brings me to a topic that I'm asked to weigh in on periodically: whether or not humane euthanasia should be considered for a pet that is experiencing behavioral changes, namely aggression, that make for a very slippery slope when it comes to their well-being and safety, and the humans around them. It's hard to ignore how even the most seemingly benign interactions that a pet requires can become triggers for them. In some cases, the techniques used to navigate through interactions can be modified to suit a pet's new boundaries, but when that's not possible or a pet's stress and anxiety can not be assuaged, or a bite occurs, exploring the decision of humane euthanasia becomes a very real thing for families. 

Though I urge families to discuss this with their veterinarian—the only one who can guide them through this decision and process—I offer some perspective, mostly by the way of my listening, really hearing the family. If a caregiver brings this up, it’s likely they are struggling significantly. For anyone who has done it or done their best to avoid it, it's hard enough to have that deeper conversation with their veterinarian about euthanasia when one is considering a pet's physical and medical decline and their inability to manage physically and emotionally (this goes for the humans too). And introduce the topic because there's a question that a behavioral element affects anyone's safety, it completely changes the landscape of the situation. I assure you that the emotions that a family struggles with regarding humane euthanasia are ten-fold when the conversation is broached because of a question of a pet's behavioral stability, and oh, do they have a lasting effect. 

The truth is that in most cases, I've seen that behavioral changes, yes, even aggression, are often heavily influenced by factors like a pet's ongoing pain or other factors. There are diseases that are known to affect a pet's behavior (like diabetes, hyperthyroidism and hypothyroidism, the latter often linked to laryngeal paralysis and accompanying hind limb weakness in dogs), and even Canine or Feline Cognitive Dysfunction. These are very much medical conditions, and can in themselves contribute to trigger-stacking. And as time goes by, medical conditions of any kind can become less manageable, especially if a pet's ability to participate in their prescribed treatment plans, including taking medication, becomes more difficult for them.

I say all of this not in an effort to minimize how much a pet's behavioral stability can impact the decision about whether euthanasia needs to be a part of a conversation. I do so to highlight the weight of how medical conditions—diagnosed or not—influence a pet's overall ability to cope, physically, emotionally and most of all, behaviorally, even to the point of aggression. And in looking at a situation from this vantage point, it helps to see that perhaps the decision to euthanize is less about viewing a pet as an aggressive animal who's behavior is jeopardizing the well-being of themselves or others, but how the progression of medical issues has impacted their ability to cope and be the calm, loving pet they've always been. In any case, it's important that we are not expecting more of a pet than they are willing or able to give, and to respect their boundaries, especially when they move the proverbial line that tells us where they are. That's the greatest show of compassion that we can give them, and ourselves.

With over 20 years of experience in pet care, Lorrie Shaw is an Animal Hospice Palliative Care Practitioner, Certified Fear Free Professional–pet sitter and CXO of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC. She welcomes your contact through lorrieshaw.com.

Episode of 'Griefcast' explores pet loss and grief, offers insight to those who are alongside the grieving

Conversations are unquestionably expansive in my work with families as a Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companion, and each of those that I have cement the notion that companion animals are an important facet of people's lives.

We build lives with our pets, as well as memories. Pets somehow become markers for significant events in our lives and it's no wonder: we spend more time with them on a daily basis than we do other family members, and for years on end.

I was super-amazed by a deep-but-lighthearted conversation between comedians Michael Legge and Cariad Lloyd on the latter’s podcast, Griefcast. I stumbled on it by accident, by way of a totally unrelated podcast but I digress. Serendipity. If you are grieving your loss of a pet, recent or long-since, I’ve no doubt you’ll be able to relate on so many levels. Lloyd gets grief and instinctively knows how to get to the spaces-in-between questions that matter and Legge expands beautifully on his life and the end-of-life journey and after with his dog, Jerk, who died in 2017.

In speaking about the death of his aunt, and how it differed from the death of Jerk, Legge said, "I didn't take care of my aunt for 12 years. I didn't look after her every single day. I didn't like, come home every night—especially after the bad gigs—and you know, my aunt wasn't there wagging her tail and delighted to see me."

That's just one example that illustrates why the death of a pet can hit so hard.

Bonus: if you’ve a human in your life that’s grieving the loss of a pet and you just don't 'get it' but really want to, this conversation could very well enable you to gain some insight. Oh, so good.

Click here to go directly to the episode.

Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Professional Pet Sitter, Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companion, and owner of Professional Pet Sitting, where she specializes in ancillary pet palliative and pet hospice care. She's also a member of Doggone Safe (where she completed the Speak Dog Certificate Program), as well as the International Association of Animal Hospice and Palliative Care, Pet Sitters International, Pet Professional Guild, International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants (supporting member) and Ann Arbor Area Pet Sitters. Lorrie can be found at lorrieshaw.com. She tweets at @psa2.

Indifference, lack of support from others after losing a pet can stem from hidden stories

That flush of emotion -- one that can encompass anything from sadness, a void, a breathlessness even confusingly accompanied by a catch of vibrant joy after recalling a fond memory -- is sometimes familiar, at other times, surprisingly less so, equally gripping and can hit any time. It’s that emotion that comes with the grief after the loss of a loved one. Loss that is recent, anticipated or is one that has had a chance to cure a bit with time or tending. The accompanying grief that inextricably links us as part of the human experience can just as easily isolate those that it’s touching if it doesn’t really register on the radar of loved ones, friends, those that we work alongside, the world-at-large.

The interesting thing about loss and grief is that neither seek approval from anyone. The pair swoop in without being summoned, and we’ve no choice but to go along with them when they arrive. There’s really no point in which grief from loss -- especially loss sprouted from death, loss has many roots -- is equidistant to any time frame or stage of life. In fact, there is no timeline at all for it, despite what some think.

Having experienced this myself and in accompanying others through their grief, there’s no doubt that this is an especially challenging misconception to hurdle in our interactions with others after losing a pet. It seems that it’s easier to understand the loss itself to be so gutting -- it’s so black and white, so tangible -- but it’s that lack of approval that grief seeks that seems to trip people, the grieving and those around them, up. Grief is cloudy, so murky, subjective even. Because grief isn’t always recognizable, because of some of our less-than-healthy relationships to it, fears about what it is or isn’t and most importantly, how it should proceed, it can be the default when around a grieving person to say well-meaning-but-off-the-mark things, to even have a dismissive attitude or worse. I recall one woman, who I know to be impossibly caring quip, "Well, we all have to go sometime..." after my dog, Bruiser died from cancer. This was odd, coming from her but later, I came to understand the flippancy of her comment better.

There’s so much chatter about what not to say to someone who is grieving a pet, what to say to them, and a lot of it is helpful information. In their defense, it can be tough for someone who doesn’t “get it” or hasn’t been afforded the luxury to, to get it right. And, in my experience, those grieving the loss of a pet often don’t feel empowered to own their process, to express what they need.

Do you see the gap there?

Instead, when we’re grieving, the advice we often hear is to stay away from those who aren’t as understanding or supportive as we’d like, at least for a little while. And that’s fine in theory, but the fact is that in practice it’s more tricky; we have professional and familial ties to others, not to mention that in general, life doesn’t stop and avoidance isn’t a good strategy. To soften those uncomfortable interactions for ourselves, we often defer to the other person. Sure, that can be a quick way to get through a moment, but time after time after time, it can wear on us -- and it really doesn’t make future interactions easier as we grieve.

What I’ve discovered in years of writing about the human-animal bond (and more importantly, listening to reader comments), working with families with pets and as a pet loss and grief companion, the idea that often, in our own haze of grief, the ones with the most indifference, the purveyors of biting, off-the-mark comments are the ones who are hurting as much as we are. Yes, sometimes, our grief tears off the proverbial scabs of their own disenfranchised, buried, and silent grief. Like the ones that belonged to the aforementioned woman, as I learned.

Does that mean that we stuff our grief? I offer, a resounding no! -- quite the contrary. Instead, tread thoughtfully, mindfully through your grief process during interactions with others.

Don’t be afraid to say to another person when you’re having a tough moment, hour, or day that when they are having difficulty in navigating something important to them, that you hope that you’re extending the kind of consideration they need to do that better. Be fearless in articulating how your grief is very much a testament to the relationship to your pet -- another living being that you spent each day with -- and that their confusion about it can make it tough to relate, but surely they’ve a close relationship that’s been impacted by death and that must resonate on some level. The comments with regard to euthanasia can be especially cutting, and it’s no wonder: in my experience, it’s the single most sensitive issue surrounding a companion animal’s end-of-life, especially for those who have avoided it, had a poor euthanasia experience, or if there is a sudden illness or accident necessitating it. It’s always fitting to express with sensitivity, the notion that yes, having a veterinarian’s help to helping your pet go to peace might be or is or was necessary, and that you’re grateful that your final act of love for them was an option.     

Is everyone that you encounter wrestling with their own buried grief with a pet as you make your way through your own? No. But I will say that our culture doesn’t have the healthiest relationship when it comes to loss and grief. And pets have a way of drawing us humans closer to that edge of profound emotion than anything else on earth with their ability to form social bonds and life cycles that move far too quickly from curious, young creatures to the mature sages that we envy. And the latter, no matter our feelings about pets, magnifies our collective uneasiness with mortality. So again, be unapologetic and brave about your grief after losing a pet, and bear in mind that the person who seems to be the least supportive of it may actually draw the support and resilience that they sorely need to reconcile their own sense of loss in your doing so.

With over 20 years of experience in pet care and the past 8 of those focused on animal hospice, Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Animal Hospice Practitioner and Certified Fear Free Professional. She is CXO of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC and can be found at lorrieshaw.com.

Grief with pet loss—often met with shaming—is very much a bigger part of the human experience

Many years ago, I walked through my first professional experience with death. Being in the midst of a family who was navigating their pet’s decline in health and then the process of being humanely euthanized gave me a very different vantage point of death than I’d ever imagined I’d have. I also knew that I wasn’t as equipped as I could be; experience and time solved that in the coming years. Since that first experience, I’d seen even more than one might expect as a caregiver for pets: countless unexpected deaths, even more terminal diagnoses, age-related decline that had become too complex for the veterinary hospice care plan and medications to manage -- even a couple of pets who died in my care. I consider myself honored to have been a part of that as well as sitting vigil with families during a pet’s final hours, and having asked questions on behalf of a family while Face Timing with them during an unexpected emergency vet visit when they were at a loss for words after hearing news they didn’t want to hear, all the while scratching their dog’s backside because it comforted them, the one at the center of everything.    

It’s been a vicarious education that I never expected but with every opportunity, I felt compelled to run toward.  

One thing that every one of those situations has in common is grief.

The grief of families, of their extended circle. Not not just a blanket of anguish, no sir. It’s bereavement that ranges from the kind one feels when they get news and though the outcome of it is certainly dire, the path leaves much to the imagination -- a very active one, at times -- of grim anticipation. The fresh grief that leaves us numb, raw when that most unwelcome event swoops in, yes, that. The grieving that occurs when the dust settles just a little, and everyone goes back to their respective lives and one is left to be with that disquieting sense of everything is different. There’s the anguish that one feels when looking back and lamenting that if there was more money in the savings account, additional treatment could’ve been an option, if the pet would have only been amenable to accepting treatment. Oh, lest we forget about that kind of grief that leads others to quip, ‘...it’s just a dog -- you can get another to replace them, right?’

Regardless if the grief is fresh, long-set in, disenfranchised, anticipatory or blended with guilt, it’s not easy to endure. And, as I’ve seen time and time again, they’re not unified experiences, despite what well-meaning people will tell you. No one can attest, ‘I know how you feel,’ as our respective relationships with our pets are unique and complex than imaginable. The deaths of our pets are also, as one friend recently pointed out, so deeply felt because we share so much more time with them than other humans -- even say, our parents.

There are as many forms of grief as there are ways to grieve. Whether our pet dies as a result from a sudden illness, an accident, a terminal disease or age-related decline, it seems important to note that those factors often determine how the grief manifests and how we walk through it.

And it’s not something that we get over, our grief associated with losing a pet or anyone for that matter: we get through it. I tend to think our grief is quite a testament to how much our bonds have evolved with our companion animals, and in some cases, what those relationships represent. For some, it’s straight up ‘hey, this is the best relationship that I’ve ever had with another living thing’, while for many, it’s a pivotal cradle-to-grave partnership. For others, that pet represents a bond with another human loved one who might have been that dog, cat, bird, or snake’s owner before they died, and the pet is that living link to said person and now that the pet is in need of extra care -- whether it’s a manageable health crisis, an accident, hospice or even death -- this event has an impact beyond measure. Each of these scenarios, each relationship reflects so much about our lives beyond pets.

So, know that your grief is valid; it’s valued (and yes, valuable), relatable, teachable and having it in your lap is very much a part of the human experience as we know it today.

There’s no right way to grieve. We just do it, our way, and there needn’t be any shame in grieving. We’ve enough on our proverbial plates to contend with in grief to be subjected to being judged on grieving our pets or for how long or how we express it on any given day.  And there’s no shame in taking the time that we need, nor seeking support in navigating the process.

Lorrie Shaw is owner of Professional Pet Sitting, where she specializes in ancillary pet palliative and pet hospice care support. She is also a Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companion and a member of The Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement as well as the International Association of Animal Hospice and Palliative Care, Pet Sitter International and Pet Professional Guild. She tweets at @psa2.

Sedating a pet for euthanasia brings the concept of 'a good death' full circle

By my own admission, I focus on end-of-life and the process of death with both humans and companion animals a lot. As one who has come to specialize in caring for senior and geriatric pets -- especially dogs -- I find myself walking alongside families as they navigate these periods of life with their pets. I’m okay with that, and I do it because I have a desire to. Pets, just like humans deserve to die with as much comfort and support as possible.

Though I had a few experiences with client’s pets meeting the end of the lives in the year’s past, in 2011 I had a deep dive into the lives of two other families. As a freelance writer for AnnArbor.com, I covered their journeys with end-of-life care and home euthanasia, which were both facilitated by local house call veterinarian Dr. Cathy Theisen. The power and intimacy of those conversations is still not lost on me.

Before too long, I’d be in the midst of death much more closely and with rapid-fire succession. I would see my father through his end, as cancer had its cruel way with him. A year later, one of my dogs would meet the same fate after some hospicing and by 2015 and 2016, I was immersed in the hospice and end-of-life care with my two remaining pets, who were in advanced age, with the help of Dr. Theisen and Dr. Monica Turenne. Those experiences don’t count the many that I've been, to varying degrees in the midst of with charges and their families (yes, the humans, too).

Inexplicably, I haven't felt the urge to run in the opposite direction during any of it. Quite the contrary, in fact. I’ve become very familiar and yes, more comfortable with death, even seeking out educational opportunities to help me navigate death and dying in a professional capacity; I’ve leaned into it, for lack of a better phrase, knowing that if I want to work with animals and their families, it’s a profound and normal part of the calling. I’ve been fortunate enough to be surrounded by professionals who have paved a compassionate path. Shying away when the topic of euthanasia comes up doesn’t seem natural to me. The Greek etymology of that word: eu = “good” and thanatos = “death” may seem like an oxymoron to most, and I understand.

My intention of giving my own pets a peaceful passing, whenever that was to be, was months in the making and by all accounts, a positive encounter. And I was all-too-aware that euthanasia might be a part of that. There was help from both doctors and other professionals to ensure that my pets and I were advocated for.

But that’s not so with everyone. And why that’s the case, is complicated.  

In my writing and my hands-on encounters, there hasn’t been another topic that has incurred as much controversy and emotion as euthanasia. And because of my experience, it’s easy for me to understand why. It’s due in part to the notion that concluding that euthanasia is the best option in a given situation -- when all of the physical, emotional, medical, financial resources (or any combination thereof) at our disposal have been exhausted -- is by all means, a huge one. It’s a sensibility of, ‘here we are’. When faced with the limitations that exist, a family might feel like they’re giving up, falling short. (They’re not.) Coming to that crossroads, let me tell you: it’s the most mind-numbing, raw experience you’ll face with a pet.

Past experiences with euthanasia often color one’s decisions about what they want for their pet; they can be empowered by them, they can feel like they’d want to do things a little differently or even be paralyzed by them. The absence of having previously traveled the path of losing a pet doesn’t often offer a buffer of comfort. That can feel like diving into the deep end of the ocean -- at midnight.

One person’s experience with the process of euthanasia highlights a common situation:

After my last pet died -- they were euthanized at the vet’s office -- I know that I couldn’t go through that again. It was too traumatic, for them, and for me. They were stressed, afraid, and yes, feeling the effects of their end-of-life because the drugs were no longer enough. Getting to the clinic was hard, but even worse, was seeing the tension and pain and fear in their face as they passed. I don’t understand, isn’t euthanasia supposed to be humane? It wasn’t what I had in mind for a death that was orchestrated and meant to be easier. I don’t think I’d choose that again. I’d rather they’d died at home and on their own than have to go through that.

Sadly, I’ve heard this kind of thing more than a few times. Folks may keep mum about this when it comes to veterinary staff, but they feel comfortable confiding in me. That is not something that I want families feeling like is their only option, going it alone. And the members of the veterinary community that I know feel the same way. Having a family try to manage a pet in end-of-life without them being medically supported (adequate pain management and getting answers to questions about what is happening, most importantly) isn’t good for the pet, nor the family for obvious reasons. And it surely damages the human/animal bond.

Having the option to have euthanasia performed at home where the pet is familiar and comfortable is a boon and can of course mitigate the problems that arise when trying to transport them to the vet, and house call and hospice vets routinely provide this in their practice. Ditto for some vets that practice in a clinical setting. With all three, planning in advance is necessary of course. I do realize that not everyone is comfortable with the scenario of a pet dying at home. So that, and in other cases where the possibility of a crisis situation availing itself and necessitating euthanasia in a clinic, making the transport of the pet as low-stress as possible is key. Having a plan in place -- one that has been crafted with a vet -- to achieve this is a must.

But aside from having all of that lined up, there is one detail that is, without question, crucial in facilitating a peaceful transition and mitigating at least some of the poor experiences that I mentioned above. It’s the simple act of a pet being sedated for euthanasia.

Sedation is two-fold: it’s not only for the pet’s well-being, but the family attending their companion animal as they are helped along by the vet. Within a few minutes of being given the sedative, the pet drifts into a deep sleep, which I can tell you is inherently a calming segue, an intensely comforting state of being not only for the pet, but for the humans. I’ll share that Gretchen’s passing was especially resonant. She gently closed her eyes after being given the sedative, then settled into the deepest sleep I’d seen her enjoy in months. Then she began to snore -- not just in her tired old dog fashion, but in a way that signaled to me that she had attained a level of comfort that hadn’t been possible in the weeks before then due to her failing body. My instinct was to reach out to her, to pet her carefully, gently because of her advanced osteoarthritis and then I realized something overwhelmingly profound -- I could pet her without any worry of causing her pain. I found myself petting her the way I used to do before her tender joints made it prohibitive. Then, without another thought, I crawled into her bed, cradled myself around her, hugging her, talking to her, listening to her breathe, saying my final goodbye, sobbing tears of comfort and joyful exhaustion and soaking up every ounce of physical contact that was most certainly the gift of gifts from the Universe that I never thought I’d ever have, and dared not ask for.

But only sedation made that possible. It brought the concept of “a good death” full circle, and in itself is an act of advocacy for both the pet and the family. Not every vet sedates a pet for euthanasia, unfortunately. If it were not something that would have been standard with my hospice vet, I would have advocated for myself and Gretchen that she be provided it no matter where that road might have led.

So, as I gently offer, “...be sure to talk about sedation” to those in my midst as they indicate they see that euthanasia needs to be a bigger part of the conversation with their vet, I say the same to you.  

Lorrie Shaw is a freelance writer and owner of Professional Pet Sitting. She has been a featured guest on the Pawprint Animal Rescue Podcast, talking about her career working with companion animals and writing about her experiences. Shoot her an email, contact her at 734-904-7279 or follow her adventures on Twitter.

Two pet owners share their unique experiences with euthanasia

In all likelihood, we will outlive our pets. That's probably a good thing. The way that our relationships are structured these days, they are dependent on us not only for basic care like food and shelter - but medical care and eventually, entering into the final stages of life, regardless of the age of the pet.

It's difficult to live with the end in mind, but as you'll read from two local residents' stories, doing so and keeping the pets best interests in the forefront can be invaluable.

The beginning of a journey's final leg

Wendy Beckwith speaks of her yellow Labrador, Holly with a quiet fondness that you would expect of any person that has shared their life with a pet for as long as she and her husband, Paul Takessian had. After arriving in their lives in 1999, it was evident that Holly loved people, and as Beckwith illustrates, Holly loved attention more than food - unlike most Labradors. In hearing about her, Holly's exuberance and the bond that she shared her with owners is still resonant.

After presenting with a limp that led to a diagnosis of osteosarcoma - a type of bone cancer - in December 2010, her owners decided that based on Holly's prognosis, that the best path to follow would be to offer palliative care and to forgo surgery. Beckwith notes that she felt strongly that her beloved dog be able to go through that period of her life in a dignified way - including her final days. In fact, the mantra that she and her husband kept in mind was that Holly should be afforded a life that was joyful, quality and dignified.

Photo courtesy of Wendy Beckwith

With that in mind, a normal of a schedule as possible was maintained, but it also, lots of attention, plenty of time on the floor with Holly, with toys and games - as well as physical contact - lots of touching was important.

Something else that was in the forefront: The idea of Holly's last moments being spent in a clinical setting, if euthanasia was needed, was something that Beckwith and Takessian wanted to avoid. Not long after the diagnosis, Beckwith was on a walk with a friend and confided that she felt being at home would be ideal for Holly as she made her transition.

Her friend said, "I know just the person that you need to be in touch with."

Dr. Cathy Theisen, DVM was brought on early as a home vet and proved to be integral in helping the family navigate through the entire period, making everyone feel very comfortable.

Visiting vets are the preference of many pet owners today, as the premise provides for a more comfortable alternative for an uneasy pet to get the care that they need - especially when addressing end-of-life issues.

Despite the disease affecting a front limb, Holly did well for a time with the help of radiation to help mitigate some of the pain, as well as great care from her family. Beckwith and Takissian felt that it was integral to have ongoing, daily dialogue with regard to how Holly was feeling and getting along: Was the pain being managed adequately? How well was Holly able to physically get around? Her quality of life - was it still good?

Another important part of their dialogue meant checking in with each other about how they were managing as Holly's caregivers. Beckwith, a retired guidance counselor noted how important it was for she and her husband to maintain an open dialogue with each other asking, "How are we handling things? How is the experience affecting us today?" After all, it wasn't just Holly's journey, but their journey as well.

Drawing from her experiences in caring for two friends during their terminal illnesses, Beckwith instinctively knew to apply the same mindfulness when it came to caring for Holly at that point in her life.

Kimberly Troiano and her husband, Chris were on a similar journey this past winter.

Their cat, Zepplin - or Zeppi, as he was affectionately known, was adopted in early 2005 and shared his owners with another feline, Tana.

Photo courtesy of Kim Troia

Life was good for years, and then sadly, Tana fell ill and eventually, the illness was having a profound effect on his quality of life. Euthanasia became the most logical choice. The Troiano's did what many people do: They took Tana into the very clinical setting that is the veterinary exam room, lingered while they said their goodbyes, waited by the side of their four-legged family member through the process as they watched him slip away.

Because the couple wasn't sure how Zeppi would process the idea that Tana wasn't going to be around anymore, they made the decision after talking to their vet to bring him along and into the room during the process. In retrospect, Troiano says that not might have been the best decision, as trips to the vet after that were impossible to manage for the cat: The fear and anxiety was just too much.

Troiano, who took faith as a Nichiren Buddhist in July 2010, notes that chanting Daimoku daily was integral in helping to find a different solution to address her pets' health needs in a way that would help them be more comfortable - ideally at home. It was then that Dr. Theisen came into their lives.

Fast forward to September 2010, and Zeppi needed to have a dental cleaning performed by Dr. Linda Griebe, DVM at Ann Arbor Cat Clinic after Dr. Theisen's recommendation.

There was one problem: Dr. Griebe saw a problem as she prepped Zeppi for the procedure, which requires anesthesia.

As it turns out, the news wasn't good. At age 7, Zeppi was diagnosed with Squamous Cell Carcinoma. Although the cat had some minor health issues, the diagnosis was a shock to the couple.

After looking at treatment options, it was decided that palliative care was the best choice. As a Nichiren Buddhist, it was important to Troiano that Zeppi be able to go through this process with dignity, as much joy as possible and a decent quality of life. After all, this was not about his owners - but it was about how they could help him navigate through this period of life - an all-encompassing process - just like Holly's family was doing.

Final transition

Holly lived fully with her family from the time she was diagnosed, with the help of radiation to help quell the pain of the disease for a time - and pain medication throughout. Takessian made a ramp to assist the pooch in getting in and out of the house, which proved to be helpful.

By early March, it was a different story: Over the course of a week or so, her pain medication wasn't being tolerated very well, and Holly was having difficulty getting in and out of the house to eliminate. Her owners had anticipated this time coming, and made the decision to call Dr. Theisen to come by and help Holly transition.

That morning, because her husband was unable to help lift the struggling canine, Beckwith asked a neighbor to come by and help with getting Holly outside to relieve herself.

"The vet is coming today to take care of Holly; it's time."

Understanding the gravity of the situation, her friend asked, "Would you like me to stay?"

The offer was most welcome, and her friend graciously brought her guitar, and softly played "Amazing Grace" as a handful of other loved ones came by to shower Holly with attention and love, stroking her and talking, reminiscing, comforting her and each other. Holly was aware of those around her and maintained a relaxed, peaceful state throughout that afternoon. Even after Dr. Theisen helped Holly ease through the final moments, the mutual support remained, as her loved ones lingered that day.

Beckwith said softly, "It was totally unexpected, the way that everything fell into place that day: The people who were important to the three of us were present, Holly's peaceful passing... and it was very much like a wake afterwards."

Conversely, I noted that the process that day sounded a bit like awaiting a birth - everyone gathered, the anticipation, the support.

Beckwith, her voice brightening, said, "Yes, yes it was very much like that, ironically enough; you're right. It was."


Zeppi maintained a quality of life that was totally manageable for a few months after his diagnosis. Despite the cancer affecting his epiglottis, he ate wet food without issue and to someone who didn't know him, he didn't look like he was batting a terminal illness.

Troiano's faith continued to be a sustaining factor throughout the process, and she and her husband kept in mind that this process was more than about Zeppi's dying. It was a transition - one that would assist him in attaining Buddhahood - and through chanting Daimoku, this would be facilitated.

Sadly, right after New Year's, Zeppi started to decline and by mid-week had stopped eating. At that point, the Troiano's understood clearly that it was time, but were glad that they didn't have to move their furry friend, who had since settled into the quiet sanctuary of the master bedroom.

Arrangements were made for Dr. Theisen to come by at about 2:00 pm on January 11 and assist Zeppi, and fellow Nichiren Buddhists were notified by phone to chant at that time to help him through the transition. As it turned out, the doctor arrived a bit early, and after chatting downstairs about what each party might see and hear during the process, (the couple got some insight into how euthanasia is administered and what typically ensues, the doctor was clued in on the chanting that she'd hear throughout), all three headed up to where Zeppi had chosen to retreat.

In keeping with the Buddhist tradition so that a proper transition could be facilitated, Zeppi was positioned with his head pointing toward the north, and face to the west. His owners sat at his side talking to him, stroking him, all the while chanting as the doctor helped the animal along. As he began to slip away comfortably, slowly, the doctor gave the family private time to comfort Zeppi, and each other - saying all of those things that pet owners want to convey to their four-legged loved ones in those final moments if they are able - and as it was evident that he was gone, the clock read 2:00 exactly.

The event still very fresh in her memory, Troiano is incredibly sad that her very loyal sidekick is gone, but finds solace in knowing that the choices that were made on behalf of her pet were the right ones. Musing how Zeppi would sleep with her, his habits, the joy that he brought to the family, it's clear that he was very special.

"Zeppi was able to go through this process - especially dying - on his terms. We had an obligation to ensure that he lived and died with dignity." She adds, "We're very thankful to have had the option to allow him to stay home and transition where he was comfortable."

One piece of advice that both pet owners give: You are your pets advocate. When they are facing death - regardless of the reason - keeping their best interests in mind is paramount. It's hard to let go, but it's harder to watch them suffer needlessly.

Read more about the topic of end-of-life care for companion animals by clicking here.


Lorrie Shaw is a pet blogger and has previously written about end-of-life, palliative and pawspice care. She welcomes your contact via email, and to follow her daily adventures as owner of Professional Pet Sitting on Twitter.