The paradox of trust in animal hospice & pet loss support

There have been instances in my practice where, during a conversation, an individual who I’m providing pet loss & grief companioning support to expresses difficulty with all manner of issues not directly related to the distant, recent or anticipatory loss of their pet. It’s expected from time to time. And to some degree, it can be linked to the work we’re doing together. It’s often a fine line that I need to carefully consider & be honest with myself about, & so a little curiosity & reflective listening goes a long way. In some cases, its not blurry: the sticky wicket of something like the death of a human loved one, or maybe having a complicated relationship with a human loved one or experiencing conflicts in the workplace has clearly taken a place front & center for the pet guardian—which is actually a pretty common thing to happen when one is wading through the viscous territory of the grief surrounding pet loss, or feeling the effects heavy duty caregiving. Issues that are as significant as the loss of a pet have a tendency to want to come up for air & stretch their legs, too. It’s a deep cauldron. 

My first response is I see you. 

And then, after curiosity enables me to identify if what’s on the person’s mind is out of bounds, as I call it, I offer honesty. 

Because while my training & experience is extensive & well-honed, I’m not a mental health professional. Nor do I want that responsibility. 

There is a level of trust that the kahus that I’m connected to have in me, & sometimes, it’s astonishing, though it shouldn’t be. I’m in the midst of human beings who are navigating the harshest yet most loving of experiences & it lays their emotions bare. I’m often bearing witness to so much. I’m answering the call in the wee hours when something doesn’t seem quite right & next steps need to be sorted. I’m there when something I’ve suggested to try works & a pet guardian’s sense of mastery in caregiving is then bolstered. I’m pivoting & meeting families at the veterinary emergency hospital when something unexpected pops up. I’m in the room in the many instances where uncharted conversations are had with veterinary hospice interdisciplinary team members. And, pet guardians are dealing with other facets of the human condition that, with their big brains & big hearts can leave them raw, weary, vulnerable. Things that they express, like abandonment, poverty of spirit & time & love, conflict with others & themselves, guilt, inadequacy, shame, regret, anger, the absence of what makes them feel whole. 

I’m able to show up when it matters & in a way that resonates. That’s not something that everyone else in a kahu’s sphere can do. And when one is immersed in what feels like quicksand & they feel seen, heard, validated & supported in a way that can’t be found easily elsewhere, the trust that someone feels I’m entitled to is palpable.

But it’s important that I not let my experience & skill to allow me to get over-confident in my abilities. Nor can I allow that or a pet guardian’s trust in me to give me a false sense of license to operate outside of my professional capacity. 

Is the grief associated with pet loss a mental health diagnosis? Surely not. It’s an expected, natural response to a significant life situation. Even when it lingers, because it’s expected to. It’s not something to be cured, fixed, stigmatized or gotten over. It will never not disappear. It feels different as time goes by, & grows around us, & us around it. 

I have, on occasion, needed to be honest & gently reiterate that I’ll not be doing what’s in a pet guardian’s best interests by attempting to counsel them in exploring the other heavy stuff that shows up in our work together & is begging for oxygen. (That situation is no different than when a feature of the pet’s well being needs attention from the veterinarian’s perspective & I quite appropriately assess that’s the case.) And so when I refer a them to another veterinary interdisciplinary team member who does have the skill & professional framework to meet a feature of their needs that I inherently lack the capacity to, that doesn’t mean I’m judging the person in front of me. Nor is that an admission of failure on my part, in fact quite the opposite. It’s an act of due diligence in maintaining best practices for the mental & emotional safety of the kahu & myself. Of grace. Of compassion. 

Pet loss & grief companioning, when done really well, is therapeutic & yes, it’s an art. After all, it feels really good to have a safe space to put our words & feelings & emotions, to really be seen & without judgement when we’re grappling with the death of a pet. And it’s no substitute for mental health support when that is needed. 

With over 20 years of experience in pet care and the past 12 of those focused on animal hospice, Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Animal Hospice Practitioner, Certified Hospice Palliative Care Advocate, and pet loss & grief companioning certified since 2017. She is founder of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC & can be found at lorrieshaw.com.

Imagining your life after a pet’s death during their decline can seem like a betrayal. It’s actually a healthy tool.

“Are you just waiting for her to die?”

That was a question that two people—one who I’m closely tied to—asked me when I spoke about plans I was sketching together to travel to a place I’d never been. It was 2015. Puerto Rico had been on my mind. And as a late-bloomer when it had come to traveling, much less doing so alone, it had become an essential mental well-being tool. It also, ironically, helped to squash paralyzing social anxiety that had plagued me into adulthood. 

I’d not traveled in the final few months of Gretchen’s life. And as a sole human in the household, I was her main caregiver. 

Gretchen was my nearly 16 year-old St. Bernard/shepherd mix. I’m quite certain in imagining the gasp (16!) that invariably escaped from your lips that I need not go into too much detail about how heavy the caregiving was for a geriatric, large breed dog with advanced osteoarthritis, a touch of renal disease and had been recently treated for hemorrhagic gastroenteritis. Gretchen was never the same after the latter and in fact that was the diagnosis that became the tipping point of a steeper decline over three months: a touchy GI tract, stress impacted her gut more easily and many of her favorite things to eat were now off limits. 

We’d been traversing ever-so-gently into this phase of our life together (I was also caring for my geriatric cat, Silver, who had his own share of issues, but I digress). And with the help of a mental health professional specializing the needs of humans immersed in a life circumstance such as this, a plan was crafted. A plan which supported me in navigating the process of being a caregiver to pets with ever-increasing needs, and the expected anticipatory grief, the frustration, the decision-making, the unknown, re-framing/re-imagining my relationships with both Gretchen and Silver—and preparing for life after both of them died. Especially Gretchen, I won’t lie. Heart dog, soul dog… whatever you want to coin it as, she was it. My ride or die being. I never saw her as my child. She was a dog, and I felt I needed to honor that. Gretchen was at that point more like my smart, sassy, independent-minded elderly aunt who never married and needed tending in her dotage. She loathed being fussed over, like someone else I know. 

Anyway, I knew it’d be hard. I’d have a very new life. I knew I’d be a different person. I’d have a different identity: I’d not be a dog guardian anymore. And I wasn’t sure what any of that would look like or feel like, because I’d spent over a third of my life living in that identity that would be unwillingly stripped from me. Yes, it scared me a little. But I was more afraid of how things would unfold if I didn’t give a lot of thought to what life would be like after. Because going from a life where your pets are naturally the first thing you think of in the morning and the last before your feet lift off the floor and into bed, to having their needs increase so much to the point that being away from home for four hours is a big deal, that’s a lot. And then when you’re aware, even though it feels unfathomable, that all of that will, in a blink of an eye—vanish. And you’ll not need to think about heavy caregiving, or medication refills or ‘what will they be willing to eat today?’, or anything else. And your instinct is that your life will develop a natural sense of emptiness when all that comes with loving and caring for a pet edging toward their end-of-life comes to a physical end. 

And then it does. And for how long, that depends. And it’s not unusual for that to ebb and flow. 

Back to the question I was asked. 

‘Are you just waiting for her to die?’

I bristled at it. And then I softened. Because if nothing else, I had no mental bandwidth to get curious about what they meant. Nor to help either person feel comfortable with how I was navigating through a brutal time. 

Because most of the time, that’s what those who are expressing things like that need. Or because it’s weird for them to hold two ideas in their hands at a time—that one can be fully engaged in the heavy caregiving and anticipatory grief while realistically looking to a future where their pet will be gone and not coming back—because they seem completely incompatible. Or because they feel like acknowledging the fact that life will go on is a kind of a betrayal of the love one has for their pet.  

I could also see how easy it is for others to mistake a healthy coping tool for rushing through a period of life that’s full of unpleasantness and gut wrenching changes while full of love all at once. Or stuffing it down so it doesn’t need to be felt because it’s too hard. 

So, was I just waiting for Gretchen to die? No. Of course not.

I couldn’t stop her dying from happening, I could not save her despite the advances in vet medicine. Nor was her dying going to be a failure on my part or anyone else’s, or of vet medicine. But what I could do, was control how I reacted and coped with the process, and the outcome. And I knew I’d not be moving on, but moving forward. I was envisioning what life would look life after she died and planning for it. I was taking care of myself, and my mental health. 

I was accepting the inevitable. And that I would never not grieve Gretchen. 

So, I responded with that. And then, I guess, they understood. 

That looking ahead and giving the reality of what life would be like some much-needed space to stretch its legs came naturally to me. That, along with my having good instincts about how I might respond to things along the way given my history, how I used my existing coping tools, and how to adjust and gain additional healthy strategies as needed. Planning the trips I was going to take after experiencing two deaths in what would be a short 10-month span was an integral part of that. As I later discovered in my professional training in Grief Companioning and animal hospice, that looking ahead is a tool that is used in working with guardian caregivers when we are supporting them in navigating through a tender-but-brutal time. 

It’s perfectly normal and natural if your thoughts move into a direction of thinking ahead to a time when you’ll have far less to think about, to manage, with a pet who is in decline. You don’t love them any less, you’re not betraying them, and you are still the very best guardian caregiver you’re able to be because you’re taking care of yourself. 

And yes, Puerto Rico was amazing.

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.

Tack-sharp exchanges between caregivers, loved ones during a pet’s fourth life stage beg for understanding

I often come into a family’s life at a time that’s fraught with fear of the known and unknown, sadness, murky territory.

Did I mention tension? 

That kind of strain is so pervasive in the area of the fourth life stage and end-of-life. And when it involves our pets, it can be very complicated. No matter if there is one human involved, or multiple members of a family, the tension is expected. It’s an understandably scary time. In my years working with families finding themselves walking in what some have initially characterized as quicksand, bearing witness to words being tossed like the harshest of barbs is par for the course. 

Recalling a stern warning from the instructor at the helm of the professional end-of-life doula training that I took part in years ago, I thought, ah... I recognize that.

“You should not be tolerating verbal abuse in the course of your work...” 

And the instructor is absolutely correct: as a professional, as a human being, I need not indulge other’s inclinations to dole out verbal abuse toward me. That kind of thing is never okay. And it’s not accepted. But—yes, though it can be seen more of an excuse, rather than an explanation in some cases—I feel it’s important to stop and look at an exchange that falls short of what someone might normally expect from themselves with some context. And without ego. 

Let’s face it, none of us are perfect. And when we’re in a stressful situation, especially navigating a pet’s fourth life stage, we need to cut ourselves and each other a little slack. There are going to be barbs carelessly tossed about in a tense moment, whether that’s toward a loved one or even a member of the professional team on board to support us.

And so, I take the words from one wise human who learned them from another before her as an offering: the late Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg “...it helps to be a little deaf”. Though she noted this sage advice in the context of marriage, I find it very useful in my work with families who are navigating their pet’s twilight or fourth life stage. The families find it useful, too. 

There are a few things that I keep in mind as I walk with a family during their pet’s fourth life stage. They really help me maintain perspective and guide these families. There’s a fair amount of fear about the known and the unknown for what lies ahead, not to mention anticipatory grief. The differing vantage points and relationships with each loved one, including the pet, have weight—no one wants to see a loved one struggle or suffer. Past experiences in coping with diagnoses, doctors, death and grief are unquestionably influential. Caregiver burden can most definitely allow those sharp words to escape more easily. 

No one is immune to these emotions and biases.

The most crucial thing I keep at the forefront as I’m encountering a stressful exchange between loved ones, I remember that everyone involved cares very much about the pet at the center, and wants the best for them. That’s something that I wholeheartedly remind families when they feel the sting of wayward comments from members of their tribe. In most cases, it’s better to give that person a pass, let the comments slide and offer some grace and tenderness. (And as a second strategy, use some thoughtful, genuine curiosity. That other person likely needs to be seen, heard and acknowledged.) After all, none of us are immune to needing a healthy dose of that in the midst of an important time of life like our pet’s fourth life stage.

Lorrie Shaw has trained as an end-of life doula and earned her certification in Pet Loss and Grief Companioning in 2017, which qualifies her to work in a professional capacity with families coping with the emotional toil with pets in end-of-life, as well as individuals seeking professional Companioning in their journey through pet loss and grief. She's a member of the International Association of Animal Hospice and Palliative Care, National End-of Life Alliance and Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement. She can be found at lorrieshaw.com, and tweets at @psa2.

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.

The loss of a pet due to sudden or traumatic death invites grief that can be more confusing to navigate

"We did everything we were supposed to. We did everything right..."

This is a resonant refrain that I hear from my families after their pet dies unexpectedly, often as they glance over to the boxes of heartworm and flea preventative that they fetched just days before but will now go unused in their household. The emotions that begin sputtering out are understandable and expected: confusion, anger, 'it's not fair', a generous helping of 'WTF?', all often mixed with guilt. 

Death is a common companion in my work. Often working with senior and geriatric pets and their families, it's usually a time of life for them when I'm ushered in; there is a pet's age-related decline or life limiting diagnosis, or it could be that in-home care is just more fitting for their respective emotional needs. 

But in truth, I work with companion animals of all ages, and I can tell you that when a pet who has been deemed to be the picture of health receives a terminal diagnosis or dies suddenly, that's an entirely different scenario when considering the human-animal bond. I've been in the midst of my share of families whose have lost their pet unexpectedly—in fact one close friend had this unfold just a few weeks ago—and for them its an experience that has its own share of complicated emotions, which in turn further tangles the grief that accompanies the loss. 

Having close proximity to this as someone who is in the trenches, I've learned what can be expected: anything. And despite what is frequently expressed by the person who is grieving their pet's sudden death, they always seem surprised by what their disbelief is doing to them, but even more so by their anger and lack of trust directed inward, like a knife. The former seems sensible to them when a death comes out of nowhere, but perhaps in the quest to derive some tangibility about it all, these thoughts can filter in: 

What did I not pick up on? 

That day weeks ago when Buster seemed a little 'off'... that had to be a clue that something was wrong, yes? 

If I'd not made the choice to go on that trip, or to have them cared for by XYZ on XYZ day, this event might not have happened. 

These thoughts invade our sense of us really knowing our pets, or worse yet, they destabilize us further by smashing our perception that we should have had an unreasonable sixth- or seventh sense about things that are often hard as Hell if not impossible to recognize if a pet is ill. And then there that trusting our own judgement about things, about other people's capabilities, about our lack of a crystal ball. Oh, that pesky fly that is guilt and shame, tagging along, buzzing about. 

There's no doubt that loved ones, friends and co-workers feel inept at navigating the rules of engagement in interacting with the person who is grieving, and when it's a sudden loss that's even more so. This is especially true if there was some aspect of trauma anchored to the pet's death. That's not surprising: in our tendency to be death- and grief-phobic, not to mention how tone deaf we are to those who have experienced trauma it can be easy to steer away from those grieving or to do so ourselves when we're in the depths because we feel like we're not being heard. It's not unusual for those of us who work with pets and/or the field of grief and loss to bear witness to a family's expressions of anger, shock, guilt, second-guessing, along with the sadness and longing for the pet they've lost.  And those emotions often bear the scars of somehow feeling misplaced or inflated. As I commonly hear from Companioning clients, 'I thought there was something wrong with me because these emotions are still here, or that I have had them at all.' 

I assure them that this is expected, all of these emotions, and that there is no timeline. After all, grief is not a pathology. It's normal, and it comes with having bonds with others, including those with animals. Grief (and trauma) are entities that very much need to breathe and move. When we're knee, waist or neck deep in them, our instinct is such that we recognize that they need attention even though we may feel it's easier to stuff them down. Grief invariably wins the wrestling match, and storytelling, practiced as a personal ritual or verbally with others, gives it an outlet.

When we're grieving the loss of a pet, especially if it's a sudden loss and/or it encompasses a traumatic event, it's not at all unusual to tell and re-tell the story of the event and its initial aftermath to others, yet another assurance I offer to families I work with. (In 'The Year of Magical Thinking', Joan Didion recounts how she found herself doing this after the sudden death of her husband.) Storytelling, something we seem to be hard wired for, is a way for us to make sense of everything with regard to the event, to grasp and wrestle with it, to time-keep, to cope. We need to tell our story, whether it's recounting the event or having the opportunity to express how we're feeling on any given day. We need others to listen to it. The crucial part of this of course isn't so much to just get it out, but to tell our story to those who have earned the right to hear it, and to have them hear us do more storytelling over the course of our grieving process. The problem is that not everyone has earned that right. And only we get to determine who those people are. 

Carving out where those safe spaces are can be daunting in the fog of these events, as the shock of it all is alone enough to disorient us. It can be as much so for those around us who want to be supportive or at the very least do-no-harm. But ours is not a culture that, for the most part, has a healthy relationship with grief or sadness and the like. I'll add that it's also one that has developed an even unhealthier aversion to feeling (or acting) anything but happy and sunny on a daily basis. For some of our peers, when they see our pain, it can trigger their own from a past experience with loss that they've lacked the tools to cope with. It seems important to mention the group of people who have an over-eager desire to intervene—which in itself can be overwhelming for us—as they tend to be intent on prescribing how we can best navigate our grief journey. This, despite our not having given consent for them to weigh in, and as is often the case, we feel the least empowered to advocate for ourselves while in this state.

Those around us tend to fall into one or more of the aforementioned categories, and knowing that can be super-helpful in understanding any [mis]communication from someone in our orbit and identifying those peers that are worthy of hearing our stories. I find that mostly, it just comes down to the other person not knowing how to proceed and that's even more the case after the death of a pet that wasn't expected. That's when communicating as clearly as we are able about what our needs are (and maybe more importantly, what we don't need) and asserting our boundaries when necessary is essential.

Lorrie Shaw is an Animal Hospice Palliative Care Practitioner & holds a certificate in Pet Loss & Grief Companioning. She is CXO of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC. She tweets at @psa2.

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.

National Grief Awareness Day sheds light on understanding grief from pet loss and more

On the cusp of a weekend in early-June, 7AM—unexpectedly lying in a hospital bed, after being admitted for a bout of lymphangitis, worried, bleary eyed- and minded—my iPhone was the only thing keeping me company in the dimly-lit, unfamiliar space. Podcasts, working their audible magic after my waking at 5AM in an untethered state. Suddenly, the device lit up, bearing the familiar number on the caller ID that I was all-too-thrilled to see at that hour. Yes, finally, something bearing some semblance to my day-to-day, something that in times like that is always welcome: likely a last-minute request from a client to come by and give their dogs some outside time and fun that afternoon, though unfortunately I knew I wouldn't be able to help. 

Wrong. 

The voice, familiar, though strangely foreign in tone and cadence. I couldn't palpate what it was at first, but as is often the case, it was somehow starkly evident as the words tumbled out. Things were not the same. And once I waffled through my initial bewilderment, it was hard to ignore the conveyance of her own despair and confusion, the voice on the other end of the phone. The one who knew that what she had to tell me would be difficult for both of us, but did so in the kindest, gentlest way.

He was gone. Just like that. One of my oldest, dearest and most beloved canine charges. Gone. Past tense.

Odie, who I had seen regularly over the past half seven years—three or more days per week. He who had been probably my best teacher aside from my own beloved Gretchen, who required more of me than [most] others and made me a better professional and mentor. Hemangiosarcoma. In an instant. No goodbye besides my usual kiss and pat on the head and an enthusiastic Love you! See you Tuesday! when we parted ways that afternoon before. But with an illness like Hemangiosarcoma, I've learned in my years, it's often the case that you're not afforded the opportunity to think, to say goodbye. 

I was grateful for that phone call. I was trusted with their grief, and with my own.

Unless I'm working to offer palliative or hospice care support to a family whose pet has a diagnosed life-limiting illness or age-related decline, its not unusual for me to get word from a client about a pet's passing via an email. Sometimes it's just too hard for them to speak the words. Occasionally I'll get that call that they might know or hope will go to voicemail because I'm often in up to my elbows with tending to my charges and can't get to my phone. It's equally common to be told ahead of time that a humane euthanasia for the pet is planned and that I'm welcome to come and say goodbye in the days prior. 

In any case, I always appreciate being in the loop, and included to give my own level of grief the opportunity to breathe—the grief that invariably comes from bonding with another living being that at times has needed your help more than they've ever needed anything. 

After all, despite my being a Certified Professional Pet Sitter specializing in assisting families with their pet's palliative and hospice care (as well as a Certified Pet Loss and Grief Companion), I'm not a robot. Though I understand propriety when it comes to knowing when others need me to hear them and when I can allow myself to be heard, I'm still human: the basic tool that allows me to do this work. 

It's not lost on me that my families and I are experiencing grief of degrees that span a wide spectrum. There's the anticipatory grief, the kind that you feel before a death or comparable life change occurs. Then the grief during the event. And the most visible to our loved ones and peers, the grief that unfurls after the loss. We share these different types of grief, my families and I, though they are all very much our own.

The Sunday after Odie died, I made my way over to his home after an invite from his family. They knew it might be difficult for me to walk into their home all on my own for that next midday visit with their other beloved dog and not see the one we were mourning welcome me, in the big way he always had. And it would have. We embraced, talked, got choked up beyond words, we supported each other, expressed our disbelief, told stories, reminisced—gave our collective and individual grief room to breathe. And for that time and the conversations we've had since, I'm grateful.

This grief took place privately, just as it does in spaces everywhere in the world. 

But we need to be able to grieve with that sense of safety outside of our private realms. Grief demands discretion at times, but it also needs the autonomy to tag along when we are going about our everyday activities, because it doesn't do well being stuffed where it's hidden from making others uncomfortable or it deemed inconvenient or even not valid (the latter is referred to as disenfranchised grief, something that is very common after the loss of a pet). Giving each other space, the opportunity to express through storytelling and other means, understanding that there is no prescribed timeline to navigating grief and hearing, really hearing ourselves and others when our grief is asking to be given what it needs to stretch its legs is what's needed—not an antidote or a cure or a way to fix it or fill the void, not something to continually cope ugly or anesthetize the pain. And on this National Grief Awareness Day, if we can begin being more comfortable with our own grief, we can work toward being more open to doing so in the presence of the grief that others own. 

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 and Pet Sitter International. 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.