Grieving the Loss of a Beloved Pet

This post is written in memory of Snowy McClelland 

29 December 2016 - 6 January 2020 

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I took one look at Snowy and I knew he was gone. Panic set in immediately. Crouching down, I took a closer look at him; his body was lying far too still. I phoned my friend Joe who had just dropped me off. “Please turn back and come in. I think Snowy’s dead.”

I couldn’t bear to look at him. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I tried to phone my sister Rhoda but couldn’t get through. Joe arrived back in. We sat with Snowy, looking at his wee body; still and motionless. He’s gone. My panic kept rising. How could this be happening? He was only 3 years old. He’d been perfectly healthy. What on earth could have happened? I scanned around, trying to find evidence. Did he choke on something? Guilt immediately set in. Did I leave something lying around that he choked on? But I couldn’t see anything. And I didn’t want to think about what had happened to him; about what pain he had been in. More guilt; why wasn’t I at home with him? Perhaps I could have prevented it?

Joe tried to reason with me; perhaps when he was playing outside in the afternoon, perhaps he’d eaten something toxic and it was working on him?

I felt my body roll forward and my head curling onto the carpet. How could this be happening? How could my Snowy be gone?

Joe and I looked at his wee body lying there. We decided we needed to get him comfy. I got the little blanket that Mum had sent me for Christmas. Snowy had lain on it a few times whilst looking out the window, watching the world go by. I moved his wee body onto one side of the blanket, then wrapped the rest of the blanket around him, with his little face poking out. It looked like he was just lying there sleeping.

I lay down behind him and curled my arm around him. “Oh Snowy”, I cried. “I loved you so much”. I let the tears flow. I could hear Joe behind me; he was choking up too; obviously finding it hard to see his friend curled up next to her deceased cat.

Anyone who knows me, knows how much I love my Snowy. For 3 years, it’s just been me and Snowy. He’s my wee buddy; my wee companion. He’s been with me through my darkest times and he offers me unconditional love that no human can. He doesn’t care what mood I’m in. In fact, he senses the times when I need comfort. There have been nights where he has curled up to me and stuck to my side when I needed it.

Rhoda phoned back. “Snowy’s dead,” I said, the minute she answered.

“What?! No!!”

I told her everything. I was sounding much too calm. I knew it was the shock. I knew the grief was in the post and I was in for a rough ride.

Rhoda was crying. “Rose, no!” she was saying.

“But you know what,” she was saying later in the conversation, “You gave him a really good life.” Well, that was true. I knew I had spoiled and cherished him every single day of his life. I never went on trips because I didn’t want to leave him on his own. If I went out, I was sure to get back early to make sure he was okay.

Whenever he didn’t like the sound of the bin-men, I played him “relaxing cat sounds” from YouTube. I had a soothing cat smells plug-in which he loved and he rubbed his nose against. He had a selection of Tuna, Dreamies and Whiska biscuits – foods that he loved.

Phone-call with Rhoda over, I felt the tiredness hit me. Joe was still talking, trying to offer comfort but I knew it was time to be on my own with Snowy.

Joe was reluctant to leave me but I promised him I’d be okay. After he’d gone, the quietness descended. It was just me and Snowy; Snowy lying on the blanket, looking like he was just sleeping. It was after midnight by now. I knew it was too late to be phoning anyone else; but anyway part of me didn’t want to phone anyone. Talking about it would mean it was real. I wanted, just for one last night, to lie next to Snowy and to pretend he was just sleeping. To stave off the grief and to stay in the protective bubble of shock for a while. I knew what was coming; the having to tell people, the tears, the grieving – I wasn’t ready for it yet. I lay on the sofa with the duvet over me. I lay with Snowy and kept him company. He was lying on the floor on the blanket, facing away from me; the back of his head poking out. Sleeping; he’s sleeping, I told myself. I lay there, next to him, keeping him company while he slept.

I didn’t sleep a wink. Thoughts would spin around like a washing machine on a slow spin.

‘What am I going to do about burial?’ the thought would come.

Then it would be looking on Google, doing a search for my vet, seeing what their opening hours were. 7.30am.

Then I would push that thought away and pretend he was just sleeping again and I would lie there, keeping him company while he slept.

Finally, when I could take no more of the thoughts whirring around on a slow spin, I decided to sit down and write out my thoughts. I didn’t want to write them, because that would mean it would be true, but I felt I had to do something. By this time, it was 4.30am and I’d had 4½ hours of lying next to my cat. As I wrote, I felt my heart hammering in my chest. People use that expression willy nilly but when it happens, it’s a weird sensation. My heart literally hammered like a drum.

The movement of my pen was slow and reluctant. I had to admit to the page what had happened. I could no longer sit in the comfortably numb bubble of shock.

After the words hit the page, then came the voxer to my other sister Debbie.

I sent her a voice message at 4.30am. This was common practice for us to vox each other and I knew her phone would be on silent so it wouldn’t wake her.

The voice message was 11 minutes long. It started off very heavy and slow. “I have some very sad news to tell you… Snowy has passed away.” And then as I began to recount the story, the tears came, tears that made it impossible to talk; so that most of that voice message was just me crying.

Then 6.45am came. I wondered if my other sister Ruth would be up yet; she gets up very early for her job. I sent a tentative What’s App message. “Morning Ruth, are you up yet?”

“Yes I’m up x” she replied straight back.

“Can I phone?” I asked. I knew that would immediately worry her because she’d know something was wrong but I had to check first if it was okay to phone.

“Yes of course”, she replied.

“Snowy’s dead”, I said, when she answered.

“What? No!” she started crying immediately. “Oh Rose! That’s awful! What happened?”

So I recounted the story to her, sounding much too calm. She was crying. “Oh Rose, that’s awful, I know how much Snowy means to you, this is just terrible.”

It was such a comfort to hear her reaction; she got it; she knew my pain.

On the dot of 7.30am, I phoned my vet.

“Good morning, Cornerstone vet”, a woman said.

“Oh hi” I said, my voice heavy. “I was due to bring my cat in today at 10am for his yearly injections but… he passed away last night.”

The woman’s voice changed immediately from early morning grogginess to complete concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that,” she said.

I talked to her about my concerns; my guilt that he could have choked on something; my fear that he could have eaten something toxic outside.

“I doubt very much that he choked on something,” she answered me. “You would have seen evidence of something lying around. And I doubt he ate something toxic because you would have seen evidence of him vomiting it up. It was most likely his wee heart not ticking properly or problems with his kidneys – something internally.

Then I asked her, “Do people get post-mortems done to their pets to find out what happened?” I felt silly asking this question. Part of me wanted to know what happened and part of me didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know of the pain he’d been in and I didn’t want his wee body to be poked and prodded.

“No”, she soothed. “No, people don’t generally get that done – there’s no point in doing that. It was just his time.”

It was just his time – those few words were such a massive comfort to me. In those few words she had wiped away my guilt – my fear that he could have choked on something; my guilt that I hadn’t been in the house that night; my confusion that he was only 3 years old and had shown no signs of sickness.

It was just his time.

The vet’s words soothed me but Snowy was still lying there, looking like he was sleeping. I still had to organise a burial for him and I knew I had to start telling people. I had to face the shock head on and start to hear people’s responses.

I work from home and my boss turned up at nine. I saw his car pulling up and I phoned him immediately. I thought it best to warn him what he was walking into. Snowy was dead. The curtains and blinds were closed. I had pulled on any old pair of jeans and a t-shirt. It was pointless to put on make-up as I was crying constantly. My face was red raw and my eyes swollen.

My boss came in and there was a discussion about burial or cremation. The outcome of the discussion was that there was no available land to bury Snowy. My heart sank further. It looked like I was going to have to take Snowy to the vet to have him cremated. I really didn’t like the thought of that but there seemed no other option. Just as I was putting on my boots to take Snowy to the vet, my friend Ann phoned in perfect timing.

I told her about my dilemma and she immediately responded with “But we’ll bury him here at mine!”

Ann lives on a farm in Whitehead with the most beautiful views. There are donkeys grazing in the grass and you can see fields and skyline for miles. Relief washed over me. Why didn’t I think of that? Of course he should be laid to rest at Ann’s! I visit her every Sunday so that means I can visit Snowy every week. And he will be resting in a perfectly peaceful place.

Arrangements were made. Ann would drive down to get me at 12.30pm. She’d drive me and Snowy up to hers, we would lay him to rest and she would drive me home again. That’s FOUR times she was willing to drive up and down. FOUR times. People like Ann amaze me. I know for a fact that every morning when Ann has her bath, she gets on her knees and asks God “Please place me where you need me today.” Place me where you need me. And just when I had put on my boots that day, she had made that call. How amazing to be a person like that, who is willing to be there for someone in their hour of need. Please may I be someone like that. Someone who can offer help to someone when they need it most. I can’t tell you how much relief it gave me, to know that Ann was coming to get me that day. I knew that her calming presence was what was going to get me through.

While I waited for her, I wrote a post on Facebook: “Rest in peace my beautiful little Snowy. Every single day I felt grateful for you. Every single day I appreciated having you in my life. I only wish there had been more days.” 

I posted a few photos along with it. I knew this was all part of the “moving out of the shock” phase. I had posted regular photos of Snowy on Facebook and my friends knew how much I doted on him. Telling the Facebook world was part of my shock treatment. Likes and comments flooded in. People couldn’t believe it. Snowy was so young.

Ann arrived in at 12.30pm with an air of sympathy, love and yet taking a calm charge of the situation.

“Okay, let’s carry you boy”, she said, gently scooping him and taking him to the car. He was still wrapped in his little blanket and tucked in close to him was the little teddy bear that he liked to play-kick at times. I watched as his little head bobbed along towards the car. Tears streamed down my face. I remembered the day I stood at the same spot watching the day he arrived. My friend Paula carrying this little cage down the steps; inside the cage a bundle of white fur. That bundle of white fur was, five minutes later, stepping out of the cage, curiously investigating his new home, then purring and rubbing up next to me within moments. In no time he had decided he liked it here and he was going to stay.

And now, 3 years later, I was watching him being gently carried away.

Ann drove and chatted, I sat and listened, glad of her capacity to chat freely while all I had to do was sit there and listen. I was very conscious of Snowy lying resting in the back of the car, hoping that the boot door didn’t open, hoping that we got him safely to his destination. When we arrived, Ann showed me the grave she had dug so far. It sat up near a swing, the view of the fields and skyline beautiful. She had a plant ready to set on the grave; a plant that would grow into a bush with white flowers. She also had a cross and an angel statue. We needed to dig a little bit more of the grave to give him more room. The physical action of setting my foot on the spade and pushing it down felt strange. I hadn’t had a wink of sleep, I’d cried constantly. I hadn’t eaten and now I was moving down from my mind to my body, preparing this space for Snowy. When we had dug enough, we went back to the car to get Snowy. Again Ann took gentle charge of the situation. She scooped Snowy up in her arms; him still wrapped cosy in the blanket with the little toy beside him. I walked behind her as she climbed the incline next to her cottage. His little face bobbed along next to her. I remember in that moment, being blown away by her friendship. That this woman would help me so much in my hour of need; that she would carry my Snowy like a precious baby. I followed her along to the grave and she gently laid him down inside. It is a sight I cannot get out of my head. The sight of little Snowy lying in the grave. Tears flowed effortlessly.

“Awk Snowy,” I cried. “I love you wee man”. I stroked his wee face, not wanting to have to say goodbye.

Ann was starting to move the soil over him. I took the other spade and reluctantly had to move soil over him too. Little by little, his little white body was being covered by soil while tears lashed down my face. Ann kept a quiet dignified strength as she helped me along.

Then the soil was entirely covered. Ann was putting the plant in the soil along with the cross and the angel. She set stones on top to keep everything in place. My heart was heavy. I felt drained. And yet I knew he was resting in the right place. 

Ann took me down to her farm to show me her new pony. I’m sure it was a diversion tactic. Then it was back to her cottage where we sat at the open fire and drank cappuccinos and ate a peanut butter chocolate slice laden with sugar and calories. The four dogs huddled around us and one of them curled up on my lap.

After we had chatted for a bit, Ann took one look at me and said, “Oh Rose, your eyes are swollen to the back of your head”.

I nodded in agreement.

“I’ll take you home soon, you need rest”.

So I went home and had a bath. I forced myself to eat and got a few hours sleep. But by 10.30pm, I was wide awake again and wondering if this was going to be another sleepless night.

Somehow, from somewhere, I was trying to find some “positives” in the situation. How on earth you can find positives in something like this, is beyond me. But perhaps it was my mind’s way of trying not to go completely insane.

The “positives” I thought of were this:-

That I outlived him.

I know that must seem strange but I always worried about what would happen to Snowy if I died. Would he be put in a shelter? Would some other stranger look after him? I knew that no-one would look after him the way I looked after him. He would’ve had to move somewhere else and he wouldn’t have been so content.

That I had given him a good life.

For 3 years of his life, I had treated him like a king. He had 6 different beds to choose from – including one that was high up on top of a chest of drawers so that he could look out the window and watch the world go by – and one that was low down tucked inside the walk-in wardrobe, so that he could feel safe and secure and hide from the bin-men. He had a choice of all his favourite foods – Tuna in spring water, Whiska biscuits and Dreamies – along with the occasional piece of fresh ham or chicken.  

That he had stability in his life.

We have lived in the same ground floor apartment in a quiet cul-de-sac for 3 years. He was an outdoor cat and he went out every night from around midnight to 8am. He enjoyed roaming around and playing and then he would quite happily sleep all day. I always worried that if I had to move one day, he may not adapt to a new area too quickly. So I’m glad that for his entire natural life, he had stability in where he was living.

He helped me through my darkest hour

Snowy arrived with me at a time I needed him most (although I didn’t know it at the time). He offered me unconditional love and he made my heart feel full in a way I didn’t know I needed. He became my little buddy; my little companion. I loved coming home to him and seeing his wee face perk up when I arrived home. He was a beautiful wee soul who chatted away to me in his own little language. I knew when he wanted outside, or when he wanted water from the bath tap. I knew when he wanted me to play with him or when he wanted cuddles.

All these “positives” were great ideas but they felt very short lived. Very quickly, lots of things felt very difficult:

Coming home at night to a quiet apartment.

It felt horrible to walk in and hear deafening silence. The flat, now devoid of a tiny bundle of fur, felt completely empty.

Adopting strange behaviours

I began to adopt strange behaviours. I’d still be peeping out the curtain wondering if he was sitting on the window sill waiting to come in.

The big pink fluffy cushion became a Snowy substitute. I’d set the cushion on top of the chest of drawers where Snowy used to sit and I’d go to it and cuddle it when I arrived home.

The “relaxing cat music” sounds from YouTube that I used to play for Snowy to drown out the noise of the bin men became the music that I’d play to go to sleep whilst cuddling the pink cushion.

People began to really irritate me

People who, when they heard the news, their very first question would be, “Are you going to get another one?”

I could feel the anger bubble up inside me at their insensitivity. Snowy was only gone 3 days and people were asking that question. 

Yup. Anger. Anger is one of the very prevailing emotions that comes with grief. Anger at someone yamming on about how wonderful their pet is, when they know full well that you’ve just lost yours.

Anger at people who you thought would have sent a message of support, but they haven’t.

Anger at Snowy being taken so young. 3 years old and perfectly healthy – what’s all that about? 

So, in summary, what can I say about my early experiences of grief? What have I learned? What has given me comfort? What has given me strength?

Perhaps you’re reading this and you have just lost your beloved pet. If so, I’m sorry – really, really, sorry. I know you must really love that wee pet – otherwise you wouldn’t be grieving so hard and you wouldn’t be looking for some comfort. Please remember this:

Grieving means that you really love

For the huge amount that you loved that wee pet, is relative to the amount you are grieving now. You grieve because you love. Thank you for that. Thank you that for the precious time you had that pet under your care, you loved him/her with all your heart.

You fed him, watered him, gave him a comfy bed to sleep on, took him for medical care; gave him cuddles and love. His time on this earth was precious and loving; all because of you. You gave him a good life.

Be super-easy on yourself

Your emotions are raw at the moment. It feels like all your nerve endings are inside out. You are super-sensitive. It only takes one comment from one stupid person to arouse anger in you. Let that anger out in healthy ways. Punch a cushion, or go out running; anything that will expend that extra energy that is bubbling up inside you.

Adopt comforting rituals

Repeat habits you used to have with your beloved pet. You might open the blind for him to let him look out; you might play relaxing sounds when the bin-men visit (because the noise scared him) or you might switch on his relaxing smells plug-in. It’s okay to still do these things for a while.

You might have a fluffy cushion that you cuddle at night pretending that it’s him – that’s okay.

Your Love will be needed again

I know that at the moment you can’t even think about another pet but in time, you might consider it. Look at how much love you had to offer that pet. Look at how much you loved and cared for him. Some other pet deserves that love and care someday. It would be unfair to deprive another pet of that love.

Cherish the memories

This is a good time to go through the many photos you have of him. You can print out photos and put them on a designated space in your home or set up a Facebook album and put the photos on there. Whilst assembling the photos, you could listen to inspirational speakers on YouTube. There are a lot of speakers online who give great advice about coping with grief.
I also used this time to remember the positives in his life: 

He wasn’t sick.

I never left him with anyone.

I looked after him well.

I gave him a good life.

I gave him 6 beds to choose from.

I gave him Dreamies & Tuna & Whiska Biscuits & fresh ham.
I got his wee ears all fixed.

You are a special person

You are a loving, giving, caring human being. You helped another wee soul on this earth. You grieve because you love. 

Try not to react to others

My emotions are raw + People make stupid comments = Bad Combo.

Try not to react; to know that some people are just stupid and make thoughtless comments. Emotions are raw at the moment.

Allow yourself time to switch off

Grief is all-consuming. You will want to look at photos and videos of your pet constantly. Allow yourself a window of time to switch off from the grief. Allow yourself some time to watch some crap TV just to switch your head off for a while. 

Keep messages short and sweet

People are well meaning and will be texting wondering how you are. You don’t have to send long convoluted messages about how much pain you are in. You can keep it short and sweet. In fact, you don’t have to reply if you don’t want to. Keep your own boundaries around your emotional space – you don’t have to over-share as it just leaves you feeling raw and vulnerable. 

Gratitude

Of course you can’t imagine feeling grateful for anything at the moment but dig deep. There is always something to feel grateful for. Your own physical health; a roof over your head; food in the fridge; your job; your salary; friends and family who support you.

Live in the moment

The sunlight on the flowers.

The vapour from the tea.

This too will pass.

It won’t feel this raw forever. 

Easy Does it

Be gentle with yourself.

Bubble Bath.

Good food.

Don’t feel you have to reply to every message straightaway.

You can keep replies short & sweet. 

Self-care is so important

It’s okay to set time aside to look after your physical needs.

Take time to organise a food shop delivery.

Spend some time on your clothes washing.

Set time aside for a relaxing bath and hair wash.

Be patient and gentle with yourself

Grieving takes time. Some people will expect you to “get over it” quickly – avoid those people. Take however much time as you need to grieve. 

Keep your life as simple as possible

People don’t think and they come out with stupid comments. Bodyswerve them. Don’t bring up the subject of your pet to people who won’t understand. Set yourself a simple plan for the day –

Eg. Get through work, have a bath, have an early night.

Try to find meaning in your suffering

One day this raw pain will pass.

You will never forget your pet and he will always hold a special place in your heart, but the pain will not be as raw as this forever.

One day, down along the line, you will get another pet.

Perhaps a rescue cat whose owner has gone on to a residential home.

Perhaps you can offer the love and care to a wee cat whose owner can no longer look after them - the way that you worried you might not be able to look after your pet one day.

Now you can turn that pain and grief into something positive and you can offer the love to some poor elderly woman’s beloved cat.

You grieve because you love. 

 

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Helpful links: " If Tomorrow starts without me"

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