Coping with the Loss of a Pet: One Year Later
This column and journey of mine has been predicated on a singular event — the loss of one small furry dog named Jasmine. July 28th was the anniversary of her last day of life. A year ago that evening, my wife and I had to make perhaps the worst decision a human ever has to make. We had to try to decide what is best for a loved one who speaks a different language. We had to advocate for her quality of life over quantity. And, it is a decision I have to live with for the rest of my life.
Jasmine was clearly dying — not eating, having trouble standing up and walking, lethargic and just not herself. I had vowed I would not let her suffer. But it is easier to talk about making a tough decision than to make one. The evening we took her to the Veterinary Specialty Center, she had not eaten in over 5 days. I couldn’t even get her to eat hamburger. She had collapsed that evening and though I think she and I both knew it was time, neither of us could have possibly been ready.
We had been together for 14 years, which at the time was a third of my own life. They were 14 very good years full of laughter, many walks and many rabbit chases. I was steadfast in her last months and weeks of life that I would not taint those good years by allowing her to suffer at life’s end.
The veterinary center was a large building — more like a pet hospital than your typical vet office— with a staff of specialists and generalists. We had called weeks in advance because we suspected Jasmine was nearing death. We just didn’t know if we would have to make this trip or if Jasmine would die one evening in her sleep or if she would pull out of her medical nosedive. But we wanted to be prepared for any emergency.
We were met by a counselor who helped us with paperwork and counseled us on what would happen should we choose to go forward. She was very empathetic with us and told us there would be no cost should we change our mind and offered medical options as well. We were given all of the information we needed to make a decision. And when we made the decision to euthanize her, we were asked what we wanted to do with her remains. It seemed so strange to be having this conversation with Jasmine’s sad eyes looking on. And to this very day, I beat myself up for our decision in disposing of her body.
I have always believed that when the body is gone, so is the life. I still believe that. And because I believe that, I decided to have her body cremated and her ashes spread at a pet cemetery. (The counselor told us which cemetery she would go to, but I didn’t write it down or remember it later on.) We did not choose to have a service or even be there for the cremation. A year later, it felt as though I had my dog killed and metaphorically threw her in the trash. As much as I abhor the funeral industry and the useless waste of materials and memorials we create for the dead, something in me says I should have done more — given her some sort of respect beyond just having her euthanized and leaving her body lying there that evening. Something in me says she deserved more — maybe for us to at least have showed up for her cremation even though I know how useless that all would have been.
I had felt this way for a year. So on the week anniversary of her death, I decided to find out where she had been taken — for some reason, I just had to know. I called the veterinary center and they didn’t keep records for a whole year, so they could only guess at where she went. Luckily, there aren’t that many pet cemeteries in even a large city like Chicago. I was able to track her to the Hinsdale Pet Cemetery and after a long conversation with a gentleman sorting through records, he confirmed she had died July 28, been transported to their facility July 31 and cremated on the 4th of August, 2014 — a week after we had her euthanized. He told me they spread pets’ ashes on the property in no particular location, but that we were welcome to visit. I decided to do just that.
After Jasmine’s death, I think I spent at least an entire month drunk…or sober, but completely disassociated from life and feeling. I didn’t go to work for the rest of the week and when I did finally go back, I walked around in a haze — numb to anything and everything. Nothing seemed to matter and it was as if I were in some sort of fog. I would sit in meetings with people discussing design issues thinking none of this shit makes a damn bit of difference in our lives and we’re all fucking idiots for pretending as though it does. (I still mostly feel this way in meetings.) It was then that I truly began questioning the meaning in our lives, where we go and what happens beyond this life. Sometimes it takes losing someone or something you truly love to begin asking these questions. Where was Jasmine? What about all of love and passion and feelings we have? Where does something so beautiful as love for another living being go? How can something so strong simply dissipate like a puff of smoke escaping into the air?
In so thinking, I was reminded of the prologue from Zen & the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance by Robert M. Pirsig where he writes of his son, Chris’ death:
“Where did he go? Where did Chris go? He bought an airplane ticket that morning? He had a bank account, drawers full of clothes and shelves full of books. He was a real, live person occupying time and space on this planet, and now suddenly where was he gone to? Did he go up in the stack at the crematorium? Was he in the little box of bones they handed back? Was he strumming a harp of gold on some overhead cloud? None of these answers made any sense.”
I wondered the same thing about Jasmine. I wondered this as I tried to find where her remains ended up. Did all that puppy energy just dissipate — all of that love, all of the emotion we felt for each other? She used to whine and whimper when I would come home after a long trip — expressing her emotion at missing me in her own canine way. Where did that go?
We place monuments up for the dead. We pickle the bodies, preserve them in ornate caskets and visit the site of burial where the remains decompose. Why? I wrote a bit about this when in Copenhagen earlier this year seeking out the gravesite of Kierkegaard.
Pirsig addresses this in his prologue as well. He writes:
“What had to be seen was the Chris that I missed so badly was not an object but a pattern, and that although the pattern represented the flesh and blood of Chris, that was not all there was to it. The pattern was larger than Chris and myself, and related us ways that neither of us understood completely and neither of us was in complete control of. Now Chris’s body, which was part of that larger pattern, was gone. But the larger pattern remained. A huge hole has been torn out of the center of it, and that was what caused all of the heartache. The pattern was looking for something to attach to and couldn’t find anything. That’s probably why people feel such an attachment to cemetery headstone and any material or physical representation of the deceased. The pattern is trying to hang on to its own existence by finding some new material thing to center itself on.”
Perhaps I was doing the same in visiting a place where the material remains of Jasmine ended up. In so doing, I came to a place full of monuments and material representations of others’ patterns…and their immense love for those patterns.
The cemetery where Jasmine’s ashes were spread was a sprawling view of tombstones in the southwestern suburbs of Chicago. I went there for reasons I cannot explain. It was just something I needed to do — part of my journey in this life. I wasn’t looking for anything emotionally and wasn’t sure what to expect. But, I found the place to be a testament to the love and heartache of so many other people who had loved their pets dearly. As I walked the grounds, I read the tombstones randomly — each one a little piece of heartache, but also a representation of so much joy a pet or any living thing can bring to a life. Molly, Muffin, Spike — names on stones that, to me, represented equally the years of enjoyment I had with my own pet. No monument or tribute can adequately sum up so many years of love and joy. But, even a fraction of all the love represented by these monuments was overwhelming. One tombstone even summed up my own feelings so aptly. It stated, “You were a part of me.” Isn’t that how we feel about someone we love so dearly?
It was hard to see so much love and heartache in one place. But it was also strangely comforting to know so many others feel and felt the same way I do. There, in front of me, were hundreds of tombstones with caring inscriptions written upon them. Owners had made special provisions with the remains of their pets — purchasing plots and ordering monuments to be erected in honor of the love and devotion these pets had given them. In many ways, it made me feel guilty as I noted above and I felt as though I had simply put Jasmine to sleep and thrown her in the garbage. I have this feeling I could have done more to honor her. But the other half of me says you must honor a person in life and not after they have parted ways with this world.
My wife and I held back tears as we read the tombstones. It was touching, sad and inspiring all at the same time. We had brought our other little friend, Cody, with us — our Maltese who spent the majority of his life with Jasmine (her little buddy and sidekick). It seemed fitting for him to be here…even if he did pee on a grave or two.
Jasmine’s death has taught me so much about the people around me and my relationships with them. She taught me so much about living and how to live. Pick your idols and role models if you will. Choose great men and women to follow whether they be presidents, civil rights leaders or rebels who changed the world. But you will never pick a more honorable role model than a dog I once knew. Jasmine encompassed all that is pure and noble in how we live. She was loyal, loving, brave and virtuous. And she was unfailingly so. What more could I aspire to be?
When I compare her life with my own, I see all that is wrong with humanity. I see the greed, the selfishness and the pride that accompanies my species while finding none or very little of that in Jasmine. Could I ever aspire to reach this pinnacle of existence? I doubt it. But if I am ever to look back on my own life with even the smallest sense of pride in how I lived, I could do worse than choosing her qualities as a model.
Humans have a gift — the gift to change the world around us for better or worse. Jasmine’s passing has pushed me to a new level in my existence. I have taken a new direction in life where I am trying to use my abilities to make the world a better place — even if it is just a small part of this world. Each of us can do something to make the world better and thus add meaning to our impermanent existence whether it be rescuing a pet, volunteering at a local hospital or working for a charity. I am convinced there is something more meaningful for all of us than toiling away on the assembly line, working in our little office cubes or sitting through the meaningless onslaught of meetings at our places of employment. There is something more meaningful than consumerism, sitting on the couch watching TV each night or wasting our time on this planet seeking our next “fix.” Jasmine’s death taught me that much or at least underscored what I already knew.
If all of those tombstones in that one pet cemetery represented so much love and so many lives changed by a pet, then what impact can we have as humans? The cascading effect of our actions can touch any number of lives and even lives beyond those lives. The Chaos Theory is especially applicable here. Jasmine just “was.” And she didn’t volunteer or write a memoir or hold a seat in some prestigious office. Just by being a dog, she touched a number of lives and will be remembered by those she touched for many years if not a lifetime. This gives us, as humans, great potential.
My visit to the cemetery was fitting, but less than fulfilling. There was no closure to be found there — not that I was necessarily seeking closure. I think of her every day and fear the day that passes where I might not think of her. A year later, I still grieve. My heart still aches terribly and I still look to fill the hole in the pattern of my life that she had once occupied. I haven’t stopped having questions about life and death and the meaning of it all. In fact, they have become more pronounced as a result. I know eventually my time will arrive and blackness will follow. Sometimes this brings on a certain anxiety — a certain urgent nature to my existence. Other times there is resolve in that I can do nothing to stop this and can only do what I can to make each day count and try to enjoy what time I have left.
If you are coping with the loss of a loved one or a pet, I can’t tell you what will help you through the grief or such a trying time. I can tell you what has helped me in the past year.
- We can add more meaning to others’ lives more ably than we can our own. I believe this is true and in coming to this realization, I decided to emerge from my shell of self-pity and begin helping others. My wife and I have been volunteering our time with a local pet rescue in Chicago. I know that I am making a small difference (and maybe even a large difference) through doing this.
- I am compiling the memories I have of Jasmine. There are many ways to do this. You can edit videos and make tributes or put everything into an album. The option to put everything into an album along with humorous stories of your time with a loved one is a very soothing activity and gives you something (an album) that will stand the test of time. (This activity has actually blossomed into a project where I am archiving my life, but more on that in a future article.)
- I remember. That’s all. I simply remember. I frequently go to a park where I spent a lot of time with Jasmine and I walk through it remembering the fun we had together, the rabbit chases and my laughter when with her. Going to the cemetery was a similar activity for me.
- There are pet grief hotlines you can call to help you through the difficulties you might be experiencing. You can also seek out a pet loss support group. I briefly considered these options, but never pursued them. They were more of a security blanket than anything for me. Just knowing I could use them helped.
- Lastly — I write and sometimes I cry. Still a year later, I can be brought to tears thinking of that little ball of fur. Some memory will just hit me and I will well up thinking of her. Crazy? That’s what some people want you to think. It’s “just a dog or cat (or any animal),” right? Wrong. That animal (or loved one) was a part of your world. Others will not always understand. But it is perfectly normal and sane to grieve. Writing about all of this has helped too and is something of a therapy for me.
In the end, time is really the best means of coping. It seems that as time passes, normalcy begins to return. We develop new patterns and ways of filling the hole in our world. This comes with a certain amount of guilt…at least for me it does. But I rest assured I have not forgotten. I have merely figured out a way to put one foot in front of another and get out of bed each morning.
Everything is impermanent in the universe save for the stream of time flowing before us. There are no answers and our questions concerning existence are futile. But that doesn’t stop them from tumbling around in my head and heart as this first year passes.
