He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
-W.H. Auden
On July 11, 2020, two dogs were born. Different mothers, different locations. They would never meet each other face to face (though they most certainly met via each other’s scent on me). Billy the Kid lived in my house. Apollo, aka Big Baby, lived in the house of one of my petcare clients. Both of Pit lineage; both physical powerhouses in their own right. Billy topped out at 58 pounds of bone and muscle; a fence climber and a runner. Apollo topped out at 111 pounds. Built like a linebacker, always an exciting event to have him barrel down the hall to greet you. Both of the Pitbull sensitivity, that emotional brilliance that makes them so alluring. I grew to love them both. I started calling them the “twins.” Twin Sons of Different Mothers.
Deep in a dark corner of my psyche where I prefer not to linger creeps a thought that Billy the Kid would die young. Despite my best efforts to fortify the fencing in my large back yard, he too often has found a work-around, or over, and gone for big runs through our town of Lafayette, Colorado. I knew there was a good chance the he’d meet his demise on the front grill of a car.
To my shock, yesterday, Apollo died. Not yet 4 years old. A fast-moving lymphoma in his intestine overwhelmed him and he is gone. For now, the stars have flickered out. What do we do? What do we say? What do we feel? Not yet 4 years old. Where’s the fairness! Unless Billy meets that speeding car before July 11, he will turn 4. Apollo is forever 3.
The lights will come back on. The stars will shine again. But I think maybe it’s ok to stay in the dark for a while. In the darkness is where the lost loved-one is. In time, the stars will flicker back on. In time you can let go, just enough, of the pain of the loss.
For several years I’ve put off writing about death and the loss of a pet. I just haven’t had the courage to go there. In the blink of an eye, it has found me. Better than my rambling words, I will now offer the thoughts of various clients who have lost a dog or cat. Just maybe there will be a little comfort to be gleaned from the sharing of these experiences.
I created a questionnaire with 9 questions and sent it to 20 willing clients. 18 responded. Suddenly the project felt bigger than the initial idea. Answering these 9 questions became a catharsis for just about everyone who had lost a beloved pet. I quipped that I’d get a bottle of Thunderbird and go sit under a Linden tree and read all the responses in one swoop. But I can’t handle the rot-gut, and I wouldn’t know a Linden tree if it hit me in the face.
So, I printed those 18 responses and sat in my back yard and read them straight through (interrupted only briefly by some goofy family of raccoons trying quite clumsily to climb from a tree onto my second story roof; a lovely distraction and blatant display on the beauty of life).
It was an emotional bomb. And it was a surprise to learn some details about the humans themselves. I was touched by all the heartfelt responses. And as I’ve said a hundred times about my experience in the petcare business: humanity rises up!
Here are those 9 questions with a summary of the responses:
Dog or Cat?
Cat x9 Dog x9
How old?
Ages ranged from 4 years to 23 years. Cats: 9-23 years. Dogs: 4-17 years.
Cats (age at time of loss): 9, 10, 10, 14, 15, 15, 16, 20, 23
Dogs (age at time of loss): 4, 8, 11, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 17
Sudden or Gradual Decline?
Cats: Sudden x3; Gradual x6
Dogs: Sudden x5; Gradual x4
This is, of course somewhat subjective. A couple pets in this survey without doubt went suddenly, either being taken by a wild animal or taken by disease that manifested late and fast. As the old expression goes, like sleep it comes on gradually and then all of the sudden.
Do you feel it would make difference if your pet died “young” or “old”?
Even though the long years do create a “deeper” bond, overwhelmingly the consensus is that being “old” at time of death is better than young. Either way, it’s all hard.
Can you describe the feeling the death of your pet evoked; is it beyond words? Any character/trait you miss most?
Originally, this was 2 separate questions. The first one was a hard one for me to read. I knew all these pets; their humans knew them even more intimately! I decided to merge them here so that each pet profile ends on a happy note.
I was so sad, and felt a great sense of guilt because it was so sudden. Julius (cat; age 10) was warily affectionate. He was good with our kids! I miss seeing him napping, curled up somewhere. If the kids were fighting or loudly playing, he would give a look and turn around, returning only when the kids were in bed.
I still cry when I think about feeling his energy leave his body. I don’t think I have sobbed gut wrenching tears like that ever in my life. I think about the look he gave me when I had to leave him at the ICU overnight. It haunts me. Apollo (dog; age 3 yrs 11 months) on the coffee table (111 pounds of him), the bounce of his ears, the squish of his face in my hands, his snorts and yawns, the way he loved me endlessly. That little big head popping up from his bed in the morning. What I would give to see that again.
I felt a void for a while. There was a presence of energy that was missing. Loneliness too. Over time, that was replaced with an appreciation for the time spent together and all the experiences we had. Freddy was in my life for so many milestones—my move to Colorado, marriage, divorce, job changes, etc. Freddy (cat; age 15) was like a dog. He would meet me at the top of the stairs to welcome me home when he heard the garage door. He would climb things: ladders, holiday trees. He kept me on my toes!
Kiko was the first being I had witnessed pass away. He was more like my child than a pet. I cared for him deeply. I’m not the sort of person to tuck myself away from the world when I’m sad, but I sure did feel like doing that sometimes. The emotional pain I felt was very deep and profound, even if it was unseen by most everyone around me. Kiko (cat; age 9) was my biggest fan; he LOVED it when I played Irish flute. My other cats hate my playing. When I played the flute, Kiko would put his paw on my leg, look at me lovingly and gently close his eyes. On the day he passed, the day we had to say goodbye, I played the Irish tunes that he loved.
Sad, nostalgic, and a bit relieved. Clearance was a fun cat to have around, but once he started deteriorating he was extremely difficult to live with. He would yowl off and on all night and started picking fights with both our other cats. We felt guilty that we felt relieved, but had a greater relief that he was no longer in pain. Clearance (cat; age 15) loved to ride in cars! Now that we are looking to do longer road trips, we know that he would have been the best travel-cat. We miss the shoulder riding and those surprise body climbs!
I felt like it took all the air from my body. After several days now it feels quiet and lonely. I’m picking up things that still have his scent and we’re talking about all the things we loved most about Elmo. Elmo (dog; age 13) was the door greeter. He was our best friend. I miss everything about him!
This was just the loss of a good friend. I guess it is beyond words, just generally sadness and constant yearning for “the good old days.” Couscous (cat; age 23) loved being around humans. He had a calming presence. No matter what sort of day I might be having, he was always there for companionship.
Sunshine was the first pet we got as a family after my husband died. She got us through a lot of sad times and helped us enjoy happy times more. When we became a blended family of 4 children and 4 cats she was the first one to win everybody over. She was a constant in a life of many changes. We were grateful to be with her as she took her last breath. Sunshine aka The Bun (cat; age 20). She was Sweetness. Cuddly!
Having a young child made it easier to talk about our feelings, but harder in that we couldn’t choose when/where we would be handling that. Aspen (dog; age 15) had an intuitive awareness of our emotions. I miss her snuggles, her soft ears. She would chase a ball for hours.
The loss was surprisingly devastating. The grief would find me at unexpected moments and be all encompassing. Sandy (dog; age 11) did these head-first snuggles where she would lay her head in our lap, then put the rest of her body down. I miss those head tilts and her silliness!
The loss of Pinky is beyond words. I still miss her now, 2 years later. She’s the only cat that I have a framed picture of in my kitchen. Pinky (cat; age 14) was always waiting right inside the door when we’d come home. She would jump on a bench and greet us with loud meows. We miss how she would sit on the back of the couch and pat you on the head if you were ignoring her.
Not only was I left with a huge hole in my heart, there was a huge hole in my life and my husband’s life. The world seemed to spin on a different axis and the idea of time and space was seriously distorted for a year. After 2 years, there are days that I still feel gutted, hollow and empty. That loneliness and longing have gotten worse rather than better and are highly triggered when I see other English Golden Retrievers. Cryssie (dog; age 17) had such soulful eyes, giving love and comfort to us when needed. I miss our morning routine. Sitting at the top of the stairs, she would hand me a paw and we would talk about the day for a few minutes. When I stood up, she flew down to the kitchen. Every morning for almost 16 years. I miss this terribly.
Nolly was sick for a long time. It was so painful to watch him leave this world. Immediately after he passed, it was a relief as we knew he was no longer suffering. The hardest moment was when our younger dog, Breccan, walked in the house, sniffed around, and then let out a wolf-like bellow. Losing a pet hits you for years to come and at the strangest moments. Nolly (dog; age 11) was my shadow, then became my daughters’ shadow. I miss that he could fall asleep sitting or standing. He was the worst swimmer (but really funny to watch). A 102-pound lap dog. I miss everything!
Anchor’s death evoked a feeling of emptiness and grief that I had never truly experienced. I had lost family members, but this was a loss of a best friend, unconditional love, and he was my first pet. My “anchor” of all anchors. Anchor (dog; age 8) was my rock! When life got hard, he was there to soothe me when no one else could. I miss that calm demeanor.
I felt a tremendous sense of guilt for failing to protect him, for initially acquiescing to his demands to go out at night and eventually just leaving the cat door open. When I finally concluded he wasn’t coming back and let myself grieve, I remember just saying “I’m sorry, Karlo” over and over again as I cried. Karlo (cat; age 10) had a certain awareness. He would climb on my lap and paw at me on several occasions when things got emotional during online group therapy sessions.
Francis was a fierce and independent spirit. We used to joke that he was too stubborn to die. In his final months he became sweeter as he slowed down. It was both sad and endearing. Seeing him carried out of our house curled up in a basket, looking so peaceful, was a strange juxtaposition to his brutish nature. He seemed like a cat that would die with his boots on. Francis (cat; age 15) always demanded his “Ten minutes of uninterrupted Francis time” when I would lie down for bed. He demanded to be petted. I usually wanted to read then. But I knew and reminded myself that someday I would miss it.
When we decided to let him die rather than trying desperate medical interventions, the shock of it was incredibly intense. Teddy was the first dog in my life that I was responsible for and viewed as “my” dog. I loved him in a way I had never experienced. I still can’t believe it, seven years later. Teddy (dog; 12 years) would always greet my return home with a happy bark, spinning in circles. When he wanted to join me on the couch, he would back that tiny body up to my feet and wait to be scooped up with a single hand. “My Little Football Man.”
The loss of Jerry left a state of depression for both me and my cat, Janis. I was also kind of angry with the universe that we couldn’t cure him. Jerry G (dog; 14 years) was a very chill schnauzer. He would go EVERYWHERE with me; everyone loved him. And he could out-hike all the big dogs!
Knowing what you know now, that you will likely be witness to the loss, would you do it again?
I realized after the fact that my question was poorly phrased. Some responded to the question to mean: Would you re-live a life with that same pet? Others read it to mean: Would you get another pet knowing you would likely witness their death too? Either reading results in a resounding Yes! The only small exception was that a current lifestyle would make that difficult.
When you think of the loss of this pet, do your thoughts land on the final days, or the happy, healthy, life before that?
Most everyone agreed it’s the happy moments they dwell on, the adventures. But inevitably those final days/moments can creep up, haunting and random. Sometimes those memories of the final moments creep up to overshadow all the happy ones with a nagging question: Could I have done something more, something different?
Is there anything about those final moments you would do differently?
Mostly no. But there are a few exceptions. A couple thought perhaps they waited too long to release their pet from this life. And a couple wished they could have offered more, anything, in those final helpless moments.
I am so grateful and amazed how everyone had so many touching comments. I can’t include them all here, but I have taken them all to heart. One common theme that I felt throughout all these testimonials, directly or indirectly, was this:
These pets stand witness to the times of our lives— the good times, the bad times, and the mundane times-- in some deep non-judgmental way that I don’t think our fellow humans can offer.
In small part, I’d like to say there are no “conclusions” about death to be drawn from compiling the answers to these questions. I’d like to say that the point, the value, in all these questions was simply the process of each human reflecting on their loss. Over the years I have seen so many people struggle with the end of life process with their pet. It’s not my place to pass judgment about being “too early” or “a bit late” to call an end to life. Only once have I ever seen a case where a client, to my horror, had a dog put down in what seemed like a clear case of convenience. The mind-blowing part for me was that there was a vet who would participate in that act.
However, aside from the statistics, in an attempt to synthesize all these individual responses, I do have some conclusions to draw. As with most things about life my mantra remains: just try to do your best, with thoughtful kindness. Wade into it! It’s what I tell myself, and of course I fail regularly. Keep trying and the stars will inevitably flicker back on, hopefully brighter than before. Investing your time and vulnerable emotions in the well-being and companionship of others creatures, be they human, or cat, or dog, lizard, bird, rabbit, gerbil… is worth the investment. Like it or not, we are all part of an intricate network of life on this planet. It is worth it. Despite the pain of the loss, it is definitely worth it!
Ah, our brilliant days
shine like eternal stars,
They glow past as consolation
for future sorrow.
Don’t cry because it’s over!
Smile because they have been!
And if the days get cloudier,
Our stars redeem!
-Bright Days by Ludwig Jacobowski
Andrew lives and works as the owner/operator of Front Range Pet Care, LLC, in Boulder County, U.S.A., Planet Earth
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