The Pets We Love, the Grief We Carry

Reflections for National Pet Memorial Day

Today is National Pet Memorial Day, and it has me thinking about the animals I have loved throughout my life, and how much those relationships have shaped me, personally and professionally.

My relationship with animals started a long time ago.

As a kid, I was shy and anxious and didn’t always feel comfortable with people. I stayed pretty close to my mom, but I was also the youngest in a family with two working parents, older siblings busy with their own activities, and no extended family nearby. Like a lot of kids at the time, I was a bit of a “latchkey kid” and spent a fair amount of time by myself.

I really didn’t think much of it. It was just how things were.

My mom tried to get me involved in things: gymnastics, Brownies, and probably some other things I don’t even remember. Nothing really stuck. (Maybe an early sign of my neurodivergent brain.)

But I remember getting my first pet who felt truly mine.

Her name was KitKat. Yes, very original! Lol.

We’d had a couple of other family pets (Blackie and Ebenezer), but KitKat was different. She was my cat. There was something about having that connection and companionship that mattered to me, although I certainly wouldn’t have had the words for it at the time.

Then KitKat had kittens, and we kept two: Licorice and Peanutbutter.

When loss becomes part of the story

After my parents separated, I moved with my mom to a new house. That transition was hard, but my cats came with us. There was comfort in having something familiar when so much else was changing.

Then one day I came home and found that two of my cats had been badly injured while they were outside near the wooded area around our home. I believed they may have been shot, based on the wounds I saw, but we never really knew for certain what had happened.

I remember the shock. I remember seeing evidence of their injuries in the house. And more than anything, I remember the feeling of helplessness, knowing something terrible had happened to animals I loved and not being able to do anything about it.

Interestingly, I don’t remember much about what happened afterward. I don’t remember many conversations about it or how we worked through it. But I remember the images that are etched in my mind, and I remember the feeling. Both have stayed with me all these years later.

Looking back as an adult, and as a social worker, I have language for something I couldn’t have named then. It wasn’t only pet loss. It was also a sudden and traumatic loss, made more complicated by not fully knowing what had happened.

At the time, though, I was just a kid who had lost animals I loved.

And then there was Peanutbutter

Peanutbutter remained.

He grew up with me and eventually grew old, living with my parents after I left for college. He was there through that transition from childhood into young adulthood, one of those steady presences that you don’t necessarily realize is marking time alongside you.

I have a picture of the two of us at Christmas when I was younger. Apparently, at some point I decided Peanutbutter needed to wear a reindeer hat.

He does not look entirely convinced or pleased with the experience.

Unlike the sudden losses I had experienced earlier, Peanutbutter had the opportunity to grow old. There was something different about that. Still a loss. Still painful. But also, the experience of having had all those years together.

And then, for a long time, there were no pets.

Finding my way back to animals

From about age 17 until my mid-40s, I wasn’t able to have pets of my own. For a variety of reasons, including allergies in the household, business with young kids and later renting, animals simply weren’t part of my home for a significant stretch of my adult life in the way they had been when I was young.

Then I remarried, bought a house, and somehow went from having no pets to having five within a relatively short period of time.

And once again, animals became a big part of my life. I was now even a dog mom!

Only this time I was experiencing it differently. I wasn’t the child finding companionship in my cats. I was an adult, a wife, a mom, and social worker watching the many ways animals become woven into the very fabric of one’s life and relationships.

They become part of our routines. They greet us when we come home. They sleep in their particular spots. They feel free to join my video sessions. They need to be fed and let out when we’d rather stay in bed. They make us laugh. They frustrate us. They comfort us. And we miss them when they are not with us, even for a short period of time.

They become part of the rhythm of home.

And, eventually, we have to face the reality that most of us will outlive them.

In the past five years, we’ve lost three of ours: two of the dogs, Samwise and Lily, who were originally my husband’s and one of the first cats, Luffy, we got together.

It has been rough.

And there is another part of pet loss that I hadn’t experienced as a child: having kids who are grieving too.

There is something particularly difficult about carrying your own sadness while watching your children experience theirs. You can’t take the loss away from them. You can’t make it make sense. You’re grieving the same animal, but you’re each grieving your own relationship with them.

What our animals can mean

Over the years, my personal experiences have also intersected with my work as a social worker.

I’ve worked with people with histories of trauma for whom an animal has become an incredibly important source of safety, consistency, comfort, and connection. I’ve sat with people facing difficult decisions about an animal’s health, anticipating a loss, questioning whether they made the right decision, or trying to make sense of a death that was sudden or traumatic.

Because I know how important these relationships can be, I ask about pets as part of my intake process. I want to know whether someone has pets now, has had important relationships with animals in the past, or has experienced a significant pet loss.

I also ask clients whether they are comfortable with my pets, occasionally being part of our telehealth sessions. Some people love seeing them. Others don’t, and I want to be thoughtful and sensitive to that too. Just as our relationships with animals can be deeply meaningful, I don’t assume that everyone experiences animals in the same way.

And I’ve seen how easily pet loss can be minimized.

Sometimes the messages are direct:

It was only a pet.

You can get another one.

That was a long time ago.

You need to move on.

You need to get over it.

But grief doesn’t work that way.

And relationships don’t work that way either.

What I have learned

If there is one thing my own experiences and my work with others have taught me, it is this:

All loss is valid. All experiences are real, even when other people don’t see them or understand them.

Our relationships with our animals, our pets, our companions, our furry family, are as unique as each of us.

For one person, an animal may be a beloved companion. For another, that animal may have been with them through a divorce, a move, an illness, a period of loneliness or depression, the birth of a child, the death of a loved one or some of the hardest years of their life.

For someone with a history of trauma, an animal may represent safety and connection in ways that are difficult to explain to another person.

And sometimes they are simply family.

Their loss deserves to be honored.

So today, on National Pet Memorial Day, maybe take a moment to remember an animal you’ve loved.

Say their name.

Look at a favorite picture.

Remember something ridiculous they used to do.

Remember the sound of them, the place they always slept, the way they greeted you, or one of those tiny things that probably wouldn’t mean much to anyone else but means everything to you.

You might feel sadness. You might smile. You might feel grateful. You might feel angry. You might feel all of those things at once, or something completely different.

There isn’t a right way to remember.

I still remember KitKat. I remember Licorice. I remember Peanutbutter. I remember Sam. I remember Lily, and I remember Luffy. And I carry the love and the loss each day.

Our relationships with them mattered. Their lives mattered. And our grief matters, too.

If you are navigating pet loss, anticipatory grief, or another difficult part of being a pet parent and would like some additional support, I offer pet loss and grief support through KWD Wellness. You can learn more on my Pet Loss Support page.