Grief
Working in behavioral dog training, we encounter grief often. We see our clients grieve for the dog they wanted and compare it to the dog they got. We put our dogs down when they’re sick. We see our co-workers' beloved best friends be put to sleep, and it crushes them. We of course are sometimes a part of discussions about behavioral euthanasia. We hear from veterinarians about the responsibility, the guilt, the conflicted feelings and pain they feel about euthanasia. Shelter workers bravely endure the pain of ending the lives of animals they care for deeply - and yet, we rarely talk about these issues or the experiences we encounter. When we do, we joke about the trauma, and we press on.
People generally choose euthanasia for quality of life reasons; our pet is suffering mental or physical anguish, and we, their caregivers, their partners, their friends, are responsible for releasing them from that pain. There’s a beautiful mercy in this, but it’s also a painful responsibility, and an inescapable reality of pet ownership. We are fools to enter into this bargain again and again - and yet, somehow, the joy we feel outweighs the grief.
How do we process the pain we feel? For many, the loss of an animal companion is one of life’s most powerful and personal losses, and yet we live in a culture that recognizes our companion animals as mere property. Some do not understand the power of this loss. Maybe they have never had the privilege of loving this way. Never looked into the big, soft puddle eyes of a dog and felt that love, that undying loyalty, that connection. Our culture doesn’t allow bereavement for our companion animal losses, and yet, this can be one of the most deep losses we feel.
The love of a dog feels truly unconditional. They awake each day happy to see us, and provide us with quiet companionship that is a witness to our lives for many years. They are steadfast in a world of fickle, ever-changing news, events, relationships, jobs - our dogs remain by our side. They live beautifully in the moment in a way no human ever can, and for that, they are truly special companions. These relationships have meaning and create fulfillment, stability and joy in our lives. Our animals are our constants. Every morning I wake up and brush my teeth and my cat is there. My dog tucks his warm body into my legs each night, and I feel the softness of his little sigh. These are the little things that we will later miss; these memories will make our grief feel ever-present and unavoidable.
Grief is a unique emotion because it both comes in waves, rising and abating, and swallows us whole. At first, grief is an all-consuming pain; while we hold the lifeless body of our best friend in our arms, we feel we could die alongside them, or that some part of us has died. Grief closes our throats, squeezes our chests, turns our guts into a pile of rocks. You can’t move. You can’t speak. you can do is feel it. For most of us, this is a frightening, humbling experience. We try to push it down. We try to outrun it. You can’t. There’s no way through it but through it. We can take some of grief’s power away by surrendering to it. Letting it happen. Letting it come. Talking about it. Crying about it. Knowing that the hurt won’t kill us, and won’t ruin us.
I don’t want to glorify grief, because it is as awful as it is inevitable. It is, however, a testimony to the things we have loved. And as time goes on, grief begins to soften and relent. We are allowed breaths of fresh air, we can enjoy the warm sunshine again. We love again with our full hearts again against all odds. And yet, inevitably, a sight, a smell, a song, will bring grief back in a wave that crashes against us and takes our breath away. It will feel like grief never left us, and we will ride the wave of grief, knowing we have no choice, and knowing it’s part of being human and of loving.
I don’t have any easy answers for processing grief. There is no cure, no balm. 10,000 therapists can’t give you advice to outrun it. I am learning, as I grow, to just let my emotional pain exist and to walk alongside that pain. Here is the feeling. This is grief. It hurts, but it will not kill me, and I am allowed to feel it for as long as I feel it. It will soften in time, and I will love again, but for now, if it needs to scream, I will just hear it. In our field as animal professionals, we need to let our grief scream. We need to hold each other’s hands while the tears fall. We need to talk about the unique grief of losing a beloved pet, the choice of euthanasia, the intense, unfathomable burden of being the one to pull that syringe back and to end a life. We need each other, and we need to normalize grief for our own wellbeing and for one another, too.
If you need to let your grief scream, we are here for you.
-By Lindsay Carlson BS CPDT-KA CCUI FPPE
