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Grief for a beloved pet is a force of nature
By Phyllis DeGioia
March 13, 2009
This week is the one-year anniversary of the euthanasia of Fred, the Bichon/Westie mix who will always be the canine love of my life. It’s a bittersweet anniversary: I wanted him to die of old age and not cancer, and he did. At 15.5, he’d been in poor health, but nowhere near what he experienced during multi-modality treatment for anal sac cancer four years earlier. Fred’s main difficulty was his highly unusual response to chemo: two potentially fatal bone marrow suppression episodes caused by two different chemotherapeutic agents, which I’m told is something a veterinary oncologist sees once in a career. He was a true survivor and never had a recurrence. But that has nothing to do with how I feel this week.
A year later, my emotions still jump all over. I have moved on somewhat, and found another dog in August. Ginger needed another canine companion and I couldn’t let my pain cause her loneliness. I wanted a different type of dog than Fred (and Dodger is) yet one who could be a therapy dog like he was. I miss Pet Pals visits to the children’s’ hospital so much it hurts, even after two years; Fred participated for nine years until he was medically retired for MRSA, which he most likely got at the hospital. While I remain active in the program by scheduling shifts, I can’t face going regularly as a visit captain, the person without a dog who puts yellow gowns on the kids, washes their hands, and passes out photos of the dogs. I act as a visit captain once in a great while, but it still hurts too much. Pet Pals was a major part of my life, and within that program I found many wonderful friends, all of whom grieved for him too. Other people in the program have moved from dog handler to visit captain with far greater speed than I have, although one man took years before he came back as a visit captain, and his wife still doesn’t participate.
I keep thinking it shouldn’t hurt this much a year later, but it does. Is it a compliment to my love for him or am I just not coping? It’s not like I wake up and think he’s still here; I just think about him a lot. Sometimes I think I grieve more for him than I did for family members, and I don’t know if that makes me odd or one of society’s disenfranchised. I’ve grieved for all of my other dogs, cried long tears for them, but nowhere near this extent. I should be able to move on, and I do a bit, but I don’t entirely. I’m in a gray fog, still crawling toward some unknown point in time where thinking of my best boy doesn’t hurt.
Sometimes I think about how he came to be with me, his finest moments, or how his antics were my main topic of conversation with my elderly father in another state. My first paid magazine article was about how Fred made a dying kid smile for the first time in a week. Memories pop up at the oddest times, seemingly out of nowhere. He was funny, confident and utterly food obsessed, a combination that created great stories that still make me laugh, although I wasn’t laughing when he unzipped a suitcase and ate pre-measured kibble for visiting guide dogs.
I have a long history with grief because my mother died two weeks before my 15th birthday, a year after my grandfather died and a year before my aunt did. You’d think that early prolonged exposure would make it easier, but it just makes it more familiar. Grief for Fred wraps around me when I least expect it. I am embarrassed but not ashamed that I grieve more for him than I did for my father. Decades later, I discover that the way I deal with grief has not changed. Both of my parents were gone by my mid-forties. Today I want a short cut and an end in sight, but neither exists. I want to get to the point where I am always happy when I think of him and am able to just be grateful that he was part of my life.
Will I ever stop missing him this much? Of course I will and the only question is when. I’ll get there. I know that because every time I think about my mother I’m happy. Fred and my mother were in my life for the same number of years. I know this process, and the crashing tide will eventually calm. Within this process of grief lies the mysteries and stunning depth of the human-animal bond.
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I LOST MY JUNEBUG ON 03/20/07 BECAUSE OF THE TAINTED PET FOOD. HE WAS ONLY THREE YEARS OLD IN COMPLETE RENAL FAILURE. I AM ALSO STILL GRIEVING FOR HIM. HE WAS JUST A BABY. IT HURT ME SO MUCH WHEN ALL OF THIS HAPPENED. MY OTHER CATS THAT I HAD BEFORE HIM DIED OF OLD AGE AND I COULD ACCEPT THAT BECAUSE THEY LIVED A LONG HAPPY AND HEALTHY LIFE WITH PLENTY OF LOVE. I THINK OF JUNEBUG EVERYDAY AND I STILL DO CRY OFTEN. I HAVE MANY PICTURES AROUND THE HOUSE AND ALSO AT WORK OF MY LITTLE BOY. IT IS OKAY TO GRIEVE AND ONE DAY YOU WILL GET OVER THAT HUMP. IT JUST TAKES A LONG TIME. GOOD LUCK!
Comment by PAM B. — March 13, 2009 @ 7:52 am
Everybody’s a little different in how they deal with such losses. I shouldn’t stereotype but, of course, I will: I think guys mostly get past the grieving stage more easily and quickly - just my personal observation though. I still keep pictures up in my office and my home of our past canine family members but I think that was harder for my wife to do. When I look at them, I’m able to remember the good times and how great it felt to pet them or bury my face in their coat - all of which make me happy. I can remember the sad times too and the really tough times when they were going through cancer treatments, etc. but it’s much preferable to look at the fun times.
I don’t think it is at all unusual to feel like you may have grieved a pet family member more than a human family member. We typically spend more time with them, doing more for them, getting unconditional love from them, worrying about them, etc. They are/were family - nothing to be ashamed about.
It’s cliche, but it really will get easier over time. Keep the good memories and take it easy Phyllis.
Jim
Comment by Jim B. — March 13, 2009 @ 8:36 am
Another great post. Fred was an extra-special dog and it is touching and not surprising that the strength of your bond is reflected in the strength of your grief. This post would be a helpful read for people who don’t understand the beauty and power of the human-animal bond, and why people grieve the passing of their pets so deeply.
Hugs to you!
Comment by Natalie R — March 13, 2009 @ 8:50 am
Phyllis, and a long-time Fred Fan, I can tell you I hurt for you when you had to let him go. A heart dog if there ever was one.
Comment by Gina Spadafori — March 13, 2009 @ 9:35 am
My dog died on Tuesday, March 10, 2009. I know I will grieve for him for many years. No you are not odd to grieve more for your dog than your parents.
Comment by Pam kelley — March 13, 2009 @ 10:12 am
Pam, I am so sorry for your loss.
Comment by Phyllis DeGioia — March 13, 2009 @ 10:14 am
My father died January 31, 2008; my mother died July 13, 2008; and my heart dog, Mike, died August 13, 2008. I miss my parents, of course - we loved each other and shared lifetimes. But my heart broke when I had to put Mike down (laryngeal paralysis - age 11). Everything about him was over-the-top - his bad was baaaaaad; his good was perfection. I have been been so deeply and thoroughly and perfectly loved by any living being as I was by Mike. I’m still inconsolable - and That’s. Okay.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/l.....188166947/
Comment by Miki — March 13, 2009 @ 10:33 am
Some of our loved ones are extra-extra special. Fred obviously was that. You truly were blessed in having Fred as your partner to share the things you love to do. A significant and meaningful part of your life has changed with Fred’s absence. Adjustment to this void will take time. A year is still soon. Give yourself permission to grieve. It really is okay.
I often wish my own heart dogs of many years ago could still be with me. I never cease missing them, but the unrelenting stabs through the heart do subside over time. Years later when we reminisce, I can still become moist-eyed over the special ones, as can my grown (and very manly) boys. Our dogs were our comfort for years through a worst-case divorce. Today, when delighting in the old funny or touching stories about the dogs, we do realize we were privileged to have had these unique pets in our lives who cared for us as much as we cared for them.
You are not alone, Phyllis!
Comment by Nadine L. — March 13, 2009 @ 12:49 pm
Just as we don’t choose who we love, or the depth of that love, so, too, have we no say in how deeply we grieve, how wrenching the lingering grasp of loss, for those who have gone. It makes no difference if they are human or not, nor how many legs they have (or whether they have limbs at all). Our heart knows what it knows, feels what it feels, and will repair the gaping hole loss has left on its own schedule.
There is a special relationship between a human and the animal that is its heartmate, a relationship different, I think. Missing Fred as much as you still do does not mean you loved your mother any less. Fred had tremendous heart, and was on so many levels entwined in your life for so many years.
What is the measure of one short year against all that love and presence? A drop, perhaps; surely no more than a tiny rivulet. In time the pain will lessen, leaving more room for the small joys remembering him brings.
Comment by Melissa — March 13, 2009 @ 1:03 pm
So many tears are running down my face for all of you and for myself, too. I am almost “writer-less”!
I lost my Batman cat 22 days ago and am trying not to burden those around me with my grief, but it is difficult.
In the past I mourned the passing of my cat, Cindy, more than the passing of my mother. It helps to know that others think that is okay.
I adopted two black cats before Batman passed away. I was afraid of how depressed I would become right after. Still can’t help feeling sad, though.
Comment by Colorado Transplant — March 13, 2009 @ 1:07 pm
The only way I could deal with losing my Harry at age two to cancer was to surround myself with my buds over at Itchmoforums…they allowed me to write all about him…he was the quirkiest of them all and I know I was meant to have him…and his one year anniversary is fast approaching so I send you my thoughts and prayers as I do know what you are feeling…
Comment by Carol V — March 13, 2009 @ 1:17 pm
I still tear up when I think about Darcy, as I am doing right now, but it’s easier. It’s not great huge sobs anymore. The wound left by her death didn’t even begin to scab over until I got Harper a year and a half later. I don’t know that the pain over losing a heart dog or cat ever really dissipates entirely.
Comment by Kim Thornton — March 13, 2009 @ 1:18 pm
I still have a rough time when I think about Colin Cat and Kenya Dog. Colin would nap on the couch with me, one forepaw on each side of my neck, and a furry cheek pressed to mine. You can’t forget someone like that. And I’m not one to try.
Comment by Georg — March 13, 2009 @ 11:22 pm
Fred took a piece of your heart with him when he left this world. You won’t get it back until you run with him again at that happy dogpark in the sky. It’s no surprise you still grieve. you’re missing a chunk of your heart. The special ones do that. The pain sure is worth it though isn’t it? I grieve for you and in advance for myself. My heart dog is 10 and won’t live many years more.
Comment by Karen W. — March 14, 2009 @ 10:57 am
Hi Phyllis, thanks for sharing your beautiful stories of Fred and allowing us to get to know him. I’m truly sad for your loss. I can imagine that you’re in a lot of pain.
As a pet loss counselor, I’m always trying to reassure clients that they’re not weird, bizarre, or heartless to grief more intensely for a pet than a person. It’s the nature of the RELATIONSHIP we had with that loved one that determines the intensity of our grief.
I’m glad that you’re not feeling ashamed of your feelings. As a matter of fact, I encourage you to feel proud of yourself for speaking on behalf of so many pet owners out there who grieve in lonely silence. That’s a really beautiful thing and it’s a great tribute to Fred’s life.
I’m sorry for the death of your friend Phyllis…you’re in my thoughts.
Comment by Dana — March 16, 2009 @ 9:14 am
It sounds like Fred was Special.
Of course, they are all special. But sometimes an animal links up with us not just in a dozen ways, but in a hundred or more. We have maximum chemistry together, and it makes the loss all the more hurtful because it’s not just the dozen things we miss; it’s the hundreds.
That’s when they are Special.
So go ahead and miss him. Miss him as much as you can stand, and then miss him some more.
The only way to let grieving evolve into happiness is to let the grieving go through us; and past us.
Comment by WereBear — March 17, 2009 @ 4:08 pm
Thank you for writting what I feel. I to greive the loss of my pet ferrets over time more than any of my family members. The way that grief sucks your breath away at an unexplained moment. How you get quiet flashes of happy times or their death and you find yourself choked by emotion. Its not that the grieving is so hard to deal with all the time. Its more that even with time, even as bed memories become fond memories there is a small gap in your life and heart that never goes away. It feels just like they took a piece of your heart with them as they left. . .
Comment by Kristy B — March 20, 2009 @ 12:03 pm