Last week, I sat in the emergency department of a veterinary hospital for hours with my 12-year-old greyhound, Karla. She’d woken screaming in severe pain, so we went to the emergency department after consulting a home visiting veterinarian. The vet recommended we admit Karla for X-rays to see if the pain was caused by osteosarcoma – a common and deadly cancer experienced by greyhounds.
As we waited, I saw a weeping family, their golden retriever lying preternaturally still on a bed in a consulting room. Their sobs were guttural; I knew what had happened. I looked at social media to distract myself and saw a post from Nagi, talking about her beloved dog Dozer’s illness, and felt a sense of connection, but also devastatingly alone in the bond between my dog and me, and the decisions I would need to make about her.
Eventually, my dog limped into the back with the vet to be sedated and X-rayed. I bent to look into her wide eyes and to hold her close as I felt her tremble and pant against me.
“Be brave, this is to help you, I’ll be back very soon,” I whispered, before walking out in a stupor.
Since the day I adopted Karla more than eight years ago, I’ve felt the grief of looming loss daily, often needing to stop and remind myself that she’s here now. A simple line, “Karla is here now”, has been a balm for the anticipatory grief I have experienced.
I’ve seen this grief in my therapy rooms, too.
I’ve spent many a session talking to clients who have lost their beloved pets or are in the process of making end-of-life decisions for their pets, including the excruciating decision about when to let a pet go. The border between hope and futility is fine; made especially harder when loaded with guilt (“Did I do enough?”) or a desire to stave off grief (“Just a little while longer”).
The connection between pet and human can be profound, and is often woven into every facet of our daily lives in a manner that few human-to-human relationships allow. Humans who have experienced trauma and loss or may have been rejected by others may have especially strong connections to their pets because of the unconditional love and presence they provide. The grief when this bond is lost can be profound.
The pain of losing a pet is no different from the pain we might feel when we lose any other beloved family member. There are some terrible differences though: the disenfranchisement around the experience of pet bereavement, including an insistence that pets are just animals and should be grieved in a more contained manner, the lack of structures to support pet grief (eg bereavement leave), the paucity of socially sanctioned rituals of grief (such as funerals) and silence from many who can’t comprehend the depth of the bond.
Working through pet grief is much like any other form of bereavement.
There is no therapy that will ease the pain of grief, beyond the simple human connection of sitting with each other in kindness as we hold this hurt.
The psychological tasks of grief include mourning the loss, talking about the relationship, staying connected to our pet such as by lighting candles or spending time looking at pictures and videos, seeking connection with those who understand our loss, hosting a memorial service or commemorating our pet in any way that feels right, engaging in basic acts of self-care such as eating well and sleeping, allowing yourself to be distracted from the grief for brief moments, and identifying ways in which we might be making the grief harder – such as through guilt-driven thoughts like, “Perhaps there was still a chance and I should not have let him go”.
It’s also important to reduce expectations of ourselves as we grieve.
It is this last task that is often the hardest when we lose a pet. The systems of life and work are not designed to honour this bond, and it’s common to have to go to work the day after losing a pet, or while needing to provide end-of-life care.
When Karla became unwell, my managers immediately let me work flexibly between the office and home, and my clients accepted that we would have telehealth appointments for a while. This didn’t make my anticipatory grief any easier to manage but it did mean that I could be present with her and tend to all her needs, alleviating some of the anguish.
For the moment, Karla is better. She does not have osteosarcoma, though we are still exploring what caused her pain. I am blessed for now, though I am aware that there will come a day when I will need to process the biggest hurt, without my best friend at my side, just as many others have before me.
• Dr Ahona Guha is a clinical and forensic psychologist, trauma expert and author from Melbourne. She is the author of Reclaim: Understanding Complex Trauma and Those Who Abuse, and Life Skills For a Broken World
