02/03/2026
Sometimes, in many ways, the loss of a beloved pet can be just as, if not more traumatic than the loss of a human.
For someone like me who has said hundreds of times
That I would stop traffic to play with a dog, this post from my colleague Bethany is absolutely spot on.
For those of you who’ve dealt with the loss of a fur baby, I hope this brings you comfort. For those of you who say “It’s just dog / cat”, I hope this brings you understanding.
Some people scoff or laugh when they see others grieving the loss of a pet.
They don’t understand it.
Why would you honor a deceased pet?
Why write an obituary?
Why have a viewing?
Why buy a casket or urn?
“It’s just a cat.”
“It’s just a dog.”
“I’m sorry, but this is starting to become ridiculous.”
(This was an actual comment I had to rush to delete off an obituary post a few months ago on my funeral home’s page for a beloved furbaby.)
And honestly? I’m heartbroken for people who think this way.
Because it tells me they’ve never experienced that pure, innocent love and joy a pet can bring — or they chose to turn a blind eye to it because “it’s just a dog.”
We do not have the right to tell people how to grieve.
We do not have the right to decide who is worthy of grief.
We do not have the right to mock someone’s pain because we don’t understand their love.
And what makes me angry is this:
You don’t have the right to add more pain to someone who is already grieving.
It is my absolute honor to care for loved ones who have died with dignity and respect — human and pet alike. That does not stop.
A few days ago, my neighbor and friend texted me in a panic.
She and her husband had just found their beloved five-year-old husky, Abbey, dead.
She didn’t know what to do.
There was so much snow, the ground was frozen, and they wanted to bury her but didn’t think they could.
They were terrified about how their youngest daughters would react.
They were even considering having Abbey removed from the home before telling them.
I texted back one sentence:
“I’m coming.”
I rushed over in my pajamas.
“The door is unlocked — just come in.”
I opened the door to their middle daughter asleep peacefully on the couch.
Then I walked into the room where the kennels were — and there was Abbey, lying in a peaceful sleeping position.
Mom, Dad, and the oldest daughter were there.
All faces tear-stained. Red. Shocked.
Grief radiating through the room.
Mom said, “I didn’t know what to do… and I didn’t know who else to reach out to.”
I knelt at the kennel and checked Abbey.
Then I asked if I could bring her out.
They agreed.
I cradled her in my arms and gently carried her out, laying her on her sister Bella’s blanket so we could discard the soiled one she was on. (This is natural. It happens when a human or a pet passes.)
And then Abbey was surrounded.
The petting started.
The tears continued.
The oldest daughter talked to her, calling her “Princess” — because that’s exactly who she was to them.
I explained that burial likely wouldn’t be possible.
I offered to take Abbey for cremation and bring her home so the girls could still have her with them.
They agreed.
Then their cat, Maize, slowly entered the room.
She inched closer.
Eyes never leaving Abbey.
She sniffed… stepped closer… sniffed again… then sat down.
Mom whispered, “They know, don’t they?”
I said, “Yes. They do.”
We sat together, petting Abbey, tears still falling.
Mom finally asked: “Should we let ‘E’ and ‘L’ see her? Or should you take her and we explain later? I’ve never had to do this before. I don’t know what’s right.”
I told her I wasn’t pushing her and I would respect any decision they made.
But I shared what I believe: That it can be healthier for children to see death if they choose to.
That shielding them completely can sometimes cause more confusion and hurt.
That giving them a choice gives them control in a moment where everything feels out of control.
After a few moments, they agreed.
Mom went to wake both girls.
When ‘L’ came downstairs, I gently said: “Abbey passed away during the night. She’s in Heaven with Jesus. I’m going to take her to be cremated and bring her back home to you. Do you want to see her one last time to say goodbye before I take her to my funeral home?”
The tears began.
‘E’ chose not to see her.
‘L’ chose to.
You don’t force.
You let them decide.
‘L’ clung to her mom’s side and sat near Abbey.
I explained she could touch her if she wanted, but she would feel cold.
She shook her head no.
She just sat and cried — and that was okay.
Dad was struggling the most.
Pacing. Leaving the room. Breaking down.
The kind of grief that hits your body before your mind can process it.
The oldest daughter grabbed paper towels for everyone — especially for Dad.
And as hard as it was, this mattered: The children saw their father cry.
They saw his grief.
They saw his love.
‘L’ held his hand.
I asked if they wanted Bella to come see Abbey.
“I think so,” I said.
They brought her down.
Bella ran around, greeting everyone, then kept returning to Abbey.
Her mood changed.
She grew anxious.
She knew something was wrong.
Animals understand.
When it was time, I asked if they wanted me to carry Abbey out.
Dad said,
“No. I want to do this for her.”
My dad brought his Jeep around.
They asked for her collar.
“Yes.”
The blanket?
“No — let it stay with her.”
Dad wrapped Abbey in the blanket and cradled her the way he would one of his human daughters.
He placed her gently into the vehicle.
The hugs came.
The tears came.
I went with my dad to the crematory with Abbey.
I removed her collar.
I held her.
I kissed her.
I told her how loved she was.
And I asked her to watch over her human babies.
Later, I went back to the funeral home, wrote her obituary, and sent it to her mom for approval.
And only then — only then — I finally cried.
This is one of the many reasons I do what I do.
If you struggle to understand this kind of pain,
put the name of someone you love where Abbey’s name is —
and then read this again.
If you still don’t understand, I’m sorry.
I hope one day you are blessed enough to experience a love so pure that the loss of it changes you.
Because for many people, the pain of losing a pet is equal to losing a human —
and sometimes it feels even deeper.
The innocence.
The purity.
The unconditional love.
I’ve lived this too many times to count with my own furbabies.
So please remember: Be empathetic.
Be gentle.
Be kind.
And never minimize someone else’s grief.
