The out-of-order death of a pet poses brutal challenges

It’s not uncommon for me to be brought on board by a family to tend to their pet who has received a life-limiting illness or is experiencing age-related decline (in many cases, both)—and for them to have much-younger pets as well. The former tends to be the focus of my care and tending of course, but as any family in this situation will tell you, the other pets become just as much a part of the equation because they’re as much a part of the family unit. 

It’s no secret that the younger pets lend a sense of lightness to the overall situation and in themselves offer some respite from the day-to-day changes, decision making, monitoring of a pet who is in delicate health. In fact, I often remind my families that though the pangs of guilt that they experience from having fun with their younger pets and tending to their emotional and mental needs are completely normal, resisting that and setting time aside for play and all else can actually make them a better caregiver to that pet whose needs are increasing and abilities changing. 

I’ll admit, those interactions are good for me, too. 

I don’t think it’s lost on anyone whose pet has died after a long period of decline that the younger pet is a font of respite from the grief hangover that is experienced. The absence of medication regimens, tending to hygiene, the worry of getting home in a timely fashion to get an aging dog out to potty—yes, that is a welcome thing. The more carefree aspects of focusing on sharing life with a younger, healthier pet that we have a bonded relationship are definitely something to look forward to. 

And for some families, in the midst of caring for the pet in delicate health and all that is associated with it, their world crashes in. 

The usually robust, younger pet seems a little off. Or very much so. And then it’s revealed that they are in fact quite sick and a bigger conversation—one that blindsides—needs to be had. Perhaps, even, it’s an accident, or the negligence of another party that causes the unfolding of events. And then the beloved pet that was counted on to be a part of the family for years is then gone, not from memory, but sight and earshot and so many memories that will never be. 

The out-of-order death of a pet is especially brutal, just as it is with a human counterpart. Though I think in many ways, maybe more so: the representation that pets hold in one’s daily life can be much more tethered than other relationships. We often spend far more time thinking about and tending to the care of pets more than we might our human loved ones because pets inherently depend on us. And walking through the grief of a pet that died suddenly and far too soon all whilst navigating another pet’s terminal illness possesses a layer of difficulty that is unmatched. 

And so, that reliable buffer of being able to depend on the younger pet vaporizes. We’re left with emotions and grief that we didn’t expect to grapple with, and yes, confusing degrees of guilt often bubble up. It can be especially complicated having this unfold—contending with the usually stuffed-down anticipatory grief associated with knowing that we’ll be saying goodbye to one pet, and then of course living in a culture where the all-too-common accompaniment of disenfranchised grief is already so prevalent. The social interactions in our personal and professional lives can ride roughshod over us: the questions, comments and avoidance from others, well-meaning and not; the tone-deafness of the trauma that is so prevalent with these losses. This is of course married with, ‘how do I navigate losing the pet who is expected to die without my younger pet softening the blow?’.

So for those who are navigating the shock of an unexpected and life-limiting diagnosis of a younger pet, the sudden loss of another family pet sooner than you expected, grappling with how to grieve the loss of a pet that you at first blush thought would carry you through the expected death of another—you are seen, heard, acknowledged. This kind of loss and grief is very real and challenging to wade through. Know who the trusted parties are that you can confide in, and seek them out. And don’t apologize for taking custody of any kind of grief sooner than you might have expected. The out-of-order grief after a pet dies is as uncomfortable, confusing and gutting as any that is experienced. 

Lorrie Shaw is a Certified Professional Pet Sitter, holds a certification in Pet Loss and Grief Companioning, and is owner of Professional Pet Sitting, where she specializes in pet palliative and pet hospice care support. She's also a member of International Association of Animal Hospice and Palliative Care, Pet Sitters International, Pet Professional Guild, International Association of Animal Behavior Consultants (supporting member), National End of Life Doula Alliance and Ann Arbor Area Pet Sitters. Lorrie can be found at lorrieshaw.com. She tweets at @psa2.

How pet care professionals handle even small details after a pet’s death matters to grieving families

I give my families whose pets have died—and my serving the family in the capacity of acting as caregiver to their pet is no longer needed—agency on how and when their keys are returned to them. Though I have a contract with my families that details the terms of my having possession of their house keys and their return, I recognized long ago that the act of my handing their keys to them is surprisingly difficult for many of them.

This is especially true when a pet has navigated the journey of age-related decline or a life-limiting illness and I’ve walked alongside them and their family to the end. And so, I proceed thoughtfully. Essentially, I’m asking permission to engage in this interaction, though it involves a seemingly benign detail, am giving it what I’ve come to know is the thoughtfulness that it deserves.

After all, I’ve forged a bond with the pet and the family through our time together, and understand the gravity of what has been experienced. 

Below is an excerpt of an email recently sent to one of my families: 

This transition can be very difficult for my families with pets that have navigated fragile health and end-of-life, so whichever option is comfortable for you both, I’m happy to make happen—whenever you are ready, and only you know what that looks like. That said, I’d love to see you all if you’re up for it. 

Receiving their house keys back can be an emotionally-charged experience for a family, greeting me with their tear-filled eyes, sometimes sobs. It’s not uncommon for me to hear when they see me to blurt out, Nope, nope, I’m not ready. Please hang on to those keys a little longer. And specializing in animal palliative, hospice and end-of-life care support, I understand. 

Keys are powerful objects in themselves. They convey a sense of trust, of being allowed to have access to very personal spaces. They have an all-too-familiar sound when they’re in your hands. They have a distinct feel; their weight, their shape. Returning them to a family whose pet has died conveys a finality to them that is punctuated in that moment. Another opportunity to lean into the experience grief and mourning. 

How one feels about this transition is often tied to their overall grief journey. And in keeping with what is known about grief and mourning, it’s important to ensure that the grieving person’s lead is followed. And so I do. 

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 and Certified Fear Free Professional. She is CXO of Telos Companion Animal Services, LLC and can be found at lorrieshaw.com.

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.

Rituals as storytelling can help the grief process after the loss of a pet

We have few things in our collective culture that serve as markers in life. You know, those things that say that we've reached points in our respective journeys that are significant. In the broadest sense, aside from cementing our relationship with another human like with a wedding, the birth or welcoming of a new child or serving our country during war -- and for some in our culture, those situations never occur -- there really is little else that we feel compelled to mark as a rite of passage, aside from some cases, religious ones. 

Rituals and traditions are a natural part of the events that we do honor, and in our culture, I can see that we need more of that. Reclaiming rites of yore and establishing new ones would be especially helpful in navigating the bumpier times, enable us more solidly connect to members of the proverbial clubs that we're (sometimes unintentionally) initiated into and to navigate that new territory. Rituals demand that we engage in the act of noticing -- something that Ellen Langer has pioneered the discussion of -- as well as find the language (verbally and visually) to articulate meaning. They incorporate movement, too, which is especially important in rituals attached to loss. (Moving our bodies helps us move our minds and hearts through the mourning process.) They also help facilitate the very important mental movement from grief into mourning and that mystery of 'what will life be like going forward?'. It's all very much about storytelling, the core of ritual. 

Aside from helping to attach a sense of physicality to important events in our lives, rituals are closely tied to the idea of time. When we're grieving and mourning, our sense of time often feels skewed, and ritual helps us gain some equilibrium with it. It's also acts as a tether to the past, reminds of the present and helps us remember that there's a future. Rituals and traditions summon a sense of timelessness. 

Painful events, and there are many of them -- a death of a loved one, the loss of a job, losing a breast, a move cross-country from a place one feels bonded to, a relationship that dissolves, selling a business -- are tough because we don't know who we're supposed to be, other than strong enough to navigate it. So, in hushed tones, we slog through the emotions that invariably arise. Yet they're all part of our story, our collective stories. And we grieve to varying degrees when these things happen, even if we don't realize it, and then we mourn. We mourn the familiarity, the comfort, the identity what is attached to it has given us. There is that unsettling sense of uncertainty that accompanies it all. After all, there's the idea of a 'new you' unfolding.

But often, we don't ritualize losses, outside of a funeral for a human member of our tribe. And what happens when a pet dies? We often feel too shamed to express our grief then, let alone give that life event a marker. The truth is that we need to do that even more then. We need to acknowledge and honor our story with that pet with ourselves, discover the verbal and visual language to articulate it and for those who've earned the right to hear it, we need to share the story with them. This kind of storytelling not only enables us to express our own path of loss, grief and mourning, it invites others to convey theirs. The latter can be an incredibly rich and full experience as well. 

The ways that we ritualize the passing of our pet can be as vast and unique as our lives with them. 

Loss offers an opportunity to express emotions in unexpected ways

One family shared their recent experience of using ritual after Nico, their 17 year-old cat, passed away after complications from chronic kidney disease.

A sense of emptiness, even discombobulation is a common feeling amongst those I work with in Pet Loss and Grief Companioning.

Photo credit: Meghan Storey

"...there was just this sadness and also a kind of surreal-ness," said Meghan Storey, one of Nico's humans. The day after the family's vet helped her along, Storey walked into the house from work for the first time without her cat being there. The new normal became starkly visible.

"Like, logically you know what's happened. You were there. You brought her to the vet, you left without her... but it still doesn't seem to make sense. Yesterday there was a cat here, today there's an empty space. I walked in the door to this empty table and I'm guessing I cried. I felt this need to acknowledge that Nico had been here. It would seem wrong to just come in and make dinner like it was an ordinary day. This little furry life had come and gone and intersected with mine for quite a few years, and she had a beautiful spirit, and I couldn't just carry on like she hadn't existed."

I was kept me up to date on how things were going with Nico, and was in the loop as bigger decisions were made on her behalf. It wasn't easy time. But a couple days after Nico died, I got an email that exuded a radiance, a sense of peace. Remembering what she saw with regard to the death and funeral traditions belonging to one of her best friend's family, who happen to be Vietnamese Buddhist, an idea organically formed in Storey's mind. In the Vietnamese Buddhist tradition, setting up a small adorned shrine in the home with photos of the deceased loved ones is common, as is burning incense. And these loved ones are acknowledged on a regular basis, sometimes setting out favorite foods and other things that they loved.

She explained, "And so, I set to work putting together my own little tribute to Nico. I lit a few sticks of incense and a candle. I put out little dishes of different foods that she liked, and treats, and some milk and water. A couple of her toys. And it really helped. I felt like I was honouring her."

Photo credit: Meghan Storey

With Nico's ashes home where they belong, the ritual continues.

"Since then, I have been lighting a little candle for Nico most nights. I was comforted when we received Nico's ashes, and then the sympathy card with her paw print from the vet. I've set up a very small shrine on our mantle. That's just my way of remembering that Nico was here, and letting her know that we loved her and that her sweet little spirit is welcome to hang out here any time it wants."

Do what's meaningful and comfortable for you 

I had done a lot of intentional work beforehand to prepare for the passing of both my pets, who did so 8 months apart. They had benefit of going to peace at home, so I wasted no time in beginning the ritual practices, and in fact, I recommend it. My vet made clay impressions of their paws after they transitioned. I spent some hours alone with them at home to allow myself some time to feel any recoil from the day and clipped locks of fur from their vessels to be made into memorial art pieces and jewelry. After transporting them to the facility, the staff helped me tend to them, situating their vessels in their final resting boxes just so in preparation for private cremation. Spending that last bit of time with them, tending to them was incredibly powerful and cathartic, and though it's not something everyone would feel comfortable doing, I did and it's really good that the option is there for others. 

The things I did on those days, and what Nico's family did for themselves incorporated important elements: tangible objects, words, movement and meaningful, intentional activity that make rituals what they are. 

I've no doubt that because of the rituals, I was able to remember more details from those days, something that I really wanted to do, knowing how much of a blur they can be in the fog of grief.

I did other things, like set up small tribute tables for each of them, incorporating things that remind me of them or that belonged to them. I donated any leftover veterinary medications and pet food to local animal organizations. 

There was more stuff that I did, and still do as an active ritual, years later.

I keep a plush soccer ball of Gretchen's on my bed amongst the throw pillows and I see and pick it up and bop it around every morning or when I'm stressed. She loved sports balls of any kind, but especially soccer balls. In her geriatric years, she preferred softer options for her old teeth and one day at IKEA, I saw the perfect choice. Happiness ensued! I plant catnip every summer because I know Silver loved finding it in the yard -- it still makes me laugh to recall finding him ripping it out of its spot if I wasn't paying attention. 

Rituals spur the memories that we need to remind us, and in their own way are a form of effortless storytelling. And storytelling is something that we really need to get us through the bumpy periods in our lives, and to remind us to make each and everyday matter.

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.