In & Of Grief: Navigating Pet Loss

“The unconditional relationship offered by pets indicates the positive correlation between strength of attachment and the level of grief experienced after the pet dies.” -Ben Hughes & Beth Lewis Harkin from “The Impact of Continuing Bonds Between Pet Owners and Their Pets Following the Death of Their Pet: A Systematic Narrative Synthesis”

Some days I see Stella in the window, standing on top of the couch, rubbing her body against the glass, tail up yet relaxed. Other days, I see her on the bed, curled up and napping, her chest lightly rising, lightly falling. I’ll see her weave in and out of the kitchen table legs too, making her rounds before she decides to hop up onto her favorite chair for head rubs and petting. These images are the conjurings of grief. Stella once thrived in our home, made it light and airy, calm and sweet. Memories of her peek up here and there, flickering in like an old projection, clipped yet running. A cruel trick that makes quick work of my emotions leaving me teary-eyed. It’s been four weeks—a whole month exactly—since she passed. The grief remains, sticking to me like a wet leaf.

For many years, the five stages of grief, developed by Swiss-American psychiatrist, Elisabeth Kübler-Ross in 1969, dominated our understanding of the grieving process. It was widely accepted that the process was more or less linear; you pass through denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Presumably to get to some other side yet what other side, I do not know. Today, grief is more nuanced. The original grief model has been built upon, and our understanding, thanks to research, has expanded to include other experiences and modes of coping. According to Tyrell et al., “The process of grieving is inherently an active rather than passive period, filled with decision-making and reconstruction both practically and existentially.” 

In some sense, each day without Stella gets easier. The emptiness she left behind fills with other preoccupations and responsibilities. Yet her goneness isn’t gone. She’ll appear at a corner, in a cat tower, at the foot of our bed. She’s there but not, living on in my memories of the places she’s been, the imprints she’s left. Sometimes I’ll willingly bring the grief on. I’ll listen to her burial song, trying to hold onto her last moments with us, afraid they’ll leave me and be forgotten, that her life will be forgotten. I do not want that. I do not want to surrender her place in my consciousness. No one is forcing me to, of course, but there’s that voice in my head, “She was just a cat. She was just a cat.” Again, no one has said these words to me; they are purely fabrication. Yet they persist.

Grieving a pet can be as painful an experience as losing a human loved one. Some research has indicated that “bereavement following the death of a pet can actually persist for longer” (Hunt et al.). But with pet loss grief comes stigma. Considered a “disenfranchised grief,” this type of grief, according to Doka, “results when a person experiences a significant loss and the resultant grief is not openly acknowledged, socially validated, or publicly mourned. In short, although the individual is experiencing a grief reaction, there is no social recognition that the person has a right to grieve or a claim for social sympathy or support.” Indeed, society expects you to move on from your pet’s passing, and quickly. 

I am grateful, however, to be surrounded by understanding friends and family who, like me, have loved—or are loving—a pet fiercely. As I move in and out of grief, I am reminded by what Stella gave me—comfort and companionship, of course, but also a therapeutic modality. She was a constant regardless of the day’s trials, missteps, and errors. Her presence a softness, a salve for life’s roughness. I don’t think she knew how to be therapeutic, she just was. In some of my darkest moments, she was there to bring me back to the present, to a version of me not completely buried beneath the weight of depression. 

Stella came into my life when she was six months old, spunky as hell but shy at first. She was a new cat at the shelter where I volunteered. During a shift, I overheard other volunteers saying that she wasn’t keen on coming down from the highest perch in the shelter to visit with people. When I walked into her room ready to clean it, I didn’t expect to interact with her, giving her the space it seemed she needed. I saw her watching me though, curious perhaps. I picked up a feathered stick toy and waved it around where she was. Her eyes caught its movement but she wasn’t ready to move yet. Then, she let herself go, following the toy down the perch stairs and onto the floor. There was a hesitation in her movement when she first landed on the ground, but it quickly evaporated as she flung her body side to side attempting to catch the toy between her little paws. It was then, this moment together, when I knew we’d be bringing her home. We hadn’t been actively searching for a second cat, but my connection with her felt immediate.

With time, our connection grew, strengthening and solidifying as we shared our days together. While Stella has now passed, it is this deep well of connection that is irreplaceable, just as some might say a human life is. Neither connection though—to human or pet—should outweigh the other. With loss, each brings their grief, sharp and painful and long. The arch of grief can bend in any direction, toward any path of loss. It does not discriminate, nor should we. A loss is a loss regardless of whom has passed and who is bereaved. A loss contains multitudes, and grief, volumes. Linked, one follows the other and, in some ways, the cycle repeats as the memories of a loved one disappear and reappear. 

As my own memories of Stella come and go, I want desperately to reach out and grab them, to make them stay and envelope me as her death blanket did around her small body. But without fanfare, the memories depart abruptly though sometimes, softly. This grief is hard and messy. It persists because my love for her persists. The wound that her passing left may never fully heal. It’ll scab over and then reform with particular reminders. I am okay with this. I am okay living with the in-betweenness of grief. It is my connection to her, after all, that buoys me to her memories. It is what has pulled me along from the start.


To read about my experience caring for Stella during her final weeks with us, please visit my piece, In Memoriam.