IN CLOSING

Towards Inner Peace and Settlement

I hope that When It’s Time to Say Goodbye has offered you support through your personal grief journey. Everything in the book encourages you towards a simple and quiet place of inner peace. This comes from accepting or perhaps resolving many facets of your grief, from the uncertainties that prevail during the lead-up to the inevitable death of your beloved pet to coping with the aftermath and roller coaster of emotions that invariably surrounds bereavement.

Remember that grief is the other side of caring, and you grieve because you care. Grief isn’t something “to get over”. It’s a path with many twists and turns. It is painful, difficult, and at times brings a strong sense of feeling lost and not in control.

Grief is a process we all find ourselves in from time to time throughout our lives. It’s the journey we take from the point of separation from those we love, or who we value and uphold, to a place where the mind and heart can feel settled, where we can begin to quietly reorganize and adapt to the new situation we find ourselves in.

It is not something to avoid or push aside to deal with later, because the process of grief needs its time and space in you. You may need to work through each part, piece by piece, sometimes working back through things you thought you’d already dealt with.

You may have to settle your mind about different things at the various stages of your particular journey. It’s very likely that you have to be courageous in facing your deepest fears, perhaps making one of the most difficult decisions in your life.

Ultimately your grief journey may teach you that “letting go” of that which is most precious to you is perhaps the greatest gift you can offer to your animal friend and yourself.

I offer the following poem and stories as an easement and support to your life.

In Remembrance of a Beloved Pet

Thank you for being what you were to me,

It’s time now to move on and go free.

Thank you for sharing your life with humankind,

I know another so special would be difficult to find.

Know that during your life you were held most dear,

And because of my care for you I shed a tear.

You will be missed for a very long time,

My pain is part of your leaving, so that is fine.

Go free now, dear little one, to where your kind go,

That you were deeply loved is for you to know.

As you progress gently but surely through grief, there is a quiet healing—difficult to see at first, but it is there. It’s there in the courage to pick up each new piece of your life, and carefully place it where it fits best, so that in time a new picture is formed.

The one who has moved on will always be missed, but perhaps they remain nearby, held within memories that fortify and strengthen you on your journey ahead. In closing, here are some moving accounts from others who have travelled this road.

Loving and Losing a Beloved Pet

This young lady from Holland shares the story of her special dog TumTum, beloved friend during her teens and young adult life:

My mother had always loved cocker spaniels. As a child, she was never allowed a dog so she walked the neighbour’s cocker spaniel. As an adult she always had dogs, but it wasn’t until her forties that she decided to expand her hobby to showing and breeding them. She only ever bred a handful of litters, but I would accompany her to dog shows and stay up all night with her to help deliver a litter; and I just loved the eight weeks that the puppies were growing up in our living room. Sometimes we would keep one, but I understood and accepted that most of the puppies had to leave to go to new owners.

Then, on 30 March 2004, Tumtum was born. He was one of a litter of seven, but instantly my favourite. We had the habit of giving the puppies cute, temporary names for their litter time until their new owners chose their permanent name, and Tumtum is the name of a Dutch candy and perfect for his litter name.

At their usual six-week health check, the vet discovered that Tumtum had a small heart murmur. While this does not always affect them, pedigree dogs should always be sold with a clean bill of health. Mum decided to keep him a couple weeks longer, as often the murmur will close on its own. I was delighted.

I was convinced that Tumtum would stay. Mum was not. So while she tried to keep an emotional distance (to make it less hard to say goodbye to him later), I had no such inhibitions and spent lots of time with him. As a result, we bonded and, as I predicted, he never left and would remain with the name Tumtum all his life.

He was my best friend through my late teens, always waiting for me to get home from school. I would take him out wandering, or let him sleep on my lap in front of the telly. We even had a party trick, where he would leap at me and I would catch him mid-air so he could hook his front legs over my shoulders and just rain kisses on me. While I loved them all, I’d never had such a strong bond with any of our dogs before.

When I grew older, I was home less and less often. First, I was away to study, then I got my first own place. As I worked full time, he could not live with me, but I would pick him up as often as possible to take him out for a walk. And then I left to travel for six months, which turned into a year.

When I returned from my travels I planned to move in with my parents again for a little while, and I wondered if he’d remember me and if our bond would have changed. My mum only had three dogs at this point, and I could see that although they had grown closer, Tumtum was still very much my dog. Whilst he was getting older (he was now 12 years old), he remained the playful and happy dog he always was. Apart from losing his eyesight, he still looked like a young dog. I felt guilty for having been away from home so much, but also thought we’d have lots of time left.

One weekend Tumtum wasn’t feeling very well. He’d thrown up his dinner and was quiet. Not necessarily something to panic about, but he grew more subdued as the day went on, and by the next day it was clear he had tummy pains. I had to leave early to go to work. When I came home, I immediately knew something was wrong. As I opened the door, I did not even need to look. I asked my mother where Tumtum was. She said she’d taken him to the vet’s that morning, where he’d had an ultrasound of his tummy. There was nothing they could do, and the kindest thing was to put him to sleep.

That evening we drove to the forest where many of our previous dogs were buried. My siblings were there as well, as is our ritual, to help dig the hole and support Mum. Mum and I picked his spot, and when the time came to collect him from the car I carried him in my arms and said my final goodbye.

I struggled with his death for a long time. A big part of that was, I think, because I wasn’t there when he passed away. I asked Mum why she didn’t call me, why she didn’t wait for me to get there. While he had lived with her his entire life, nobody questioned that he was “my dog”. But she hadn’t wanted to interrupt me at work or upset me. Still, it has always haunted me.

I would imagine that he wasn’t gone. When I closed my eyes, I could still recall exactly how his coat felt, how I would stroke his face and ears, how he would feel when he slept on my lap. When I was outside, I imagined he was still walking next to me, every step of my journey.

Nearly two years after his death, an Australian friend came to stay with me for three weeks, and she told me that she had done a course on animal communication. She needed to practise, and as this was for both animals that were still here and those that passed on, I gave her a picture of my Tumtum. She wrote down the conversation she had with him for me.

Basically, she said he was a very happy, playful soul, almost puppy-like. As she tried to contact him he had to come from afar and whilst happy to talk to my friend, he was also keen to get back to me. When she asked for a specific memory to give me, he told her of one Christmas with me so happy sitting under the tree, handing out presents to everyone. He also said that he didn’t mind that I was not there when he passed away, and that he saw me carry him to his grave. He also said that he understood why I had to be away so much when he was still alive, that it was part of my journey. His purpose was to be with me and make me happy, and he would continue to stay with me until I trusted enough to love again.

The idea of getting another dog did not even cross my mind for years—until last year. All of a sudden, all of the circumstances were perfect and the idea would not leave my mind. I obsessed over what type of dog, where from, and so on. I really think it was the universe telling me that it was time. I was also very emotional during this time, thinking of Tumtum a lot.

I decided on a rescue dog, as they would need me as much as I needed them, and it would be an adult black dog, as they are often the ones that don’t get adopted. When I saw Remy’s picture it just stuck, and I knew it would be him. It was still a long wait of three months until I finally met him. In this time, I felt like I already knew him, whilst he had no idea that I existed. Seeing him for the first time wasn’t a picture-perfect moment where both of us just gazed into each other’s eyes; he was bursting for a wee, anxious for his friends, and busy smelling everything and meeting everyone but me. The three-and-a-half-hour drive home was spent with me looking into the back of the car, trying to see how he was doing in his crate on the backseat. He was clearly exhausted but afraid to lie down, so he slept sitting up, leaning into the side of the crate.

Taking this journey with him has been a privilege. From the car journey, where I would softly speak and sing to him, to coming home and learning he was terrified of the linoleum floor in the kitchen so I had to move his food and water bowls, to seeing his confidence grow, to the first time he dared to ask me to play with him by gently taking my hand in his mouth. All my months of planning went straight out the window, as he refused to go into the crate I got especially for night time; he now sleeps in my bed. He has done this on many occasions, as if to say, “No, Mum, I’ll show you a better way.” And it always is.

I was worried about adopting a street dog from overseas after only being used to the easy-going cocker spaniels, but Remy could not be clearer in his communications if he spoke the words to me. My relationship with Remy feels very much like a partnership, with mutual respect and appreciation for each other’s likes and dislikes. And the weird part is I can now no longer recall how Tumtum’s coat felt, the feeling of stroking his head and ears, or how he would lie on my lap. And I think of the purpose he told my friend he had for my life, and think maybe he has fulfilled it.

Here is another heart-warming account of sharing life with canine friends:

My experience of owning a dog covers two dogs: one I have lost and one I still have.

I didn’t grow up with a dog, and my first experience was with a lovely Doberman bitch called Polly that we had from an eight-week-old puppy. I wish I knew then what I know now, as I’m sure we didn’t do the training as well as we could have done, but, having said that, we loved her dearly. She was a real character—you could say all mouth and no trousers. I recall her speeding across the park towards a lurcher and a Jack Russell barking to play with them, but the next minute seeing her crying and running back towards me over the crest of the hill with the lurcher chasing her.

We had a couple of health scares with her over the years that could have been quite serious. Late one evening, she started bloating up around her abdomen and was desperately trying to be sick. We rushed her to the vet, who basically had to deflate her. Not long afterwards, she started showing the same behaviour, so again we took her straight to the vet’s, who couldn’t initially see what was wrong. However, she trusted that we knew the signs after the last time, and within half an hour of us leaving Polly was rushed in to surgery. This time, her stomach had twisted round, and if we hadn’t noticed what was happening, she surely would have died in lots of pain.

These two occasions were my first experience in life of nearly losing a dog, and the feeling was overwhelming. The love you have for them is quite shocking, and unless you have owned a dog you can never understand the intensity.

We lost Polly at just shy of 11 years old. She had started coughing, and the vet said it may have been kennel cough, so to meet her in the car park at the surgery. She quickly realized this wasn’t the problem, and on examining her, established that it was an enlarged heart and Polly was suffering from congestive heart failure.

We tried some medication to help her clear the fluid from her lungs over a couple of days, but nothing improved her symptoms. The vet gave her an injection, and I asked how long I should give it to work. She basically said that we would be looking at hours and if there was no improvement to bring her back in. In hindsight, I think the injection was just saline and, because the vet knew we were sensible owners and that I had understood the underlying meaning of what she was saying, she knew I would really be taking Polly home for a couple of hours to get myself ready for the final decision.

Sure enough, later that afternoon, I knew Polly had had enough and asked my friend to call the vet for me and say it was time. Before going back to the vet’s for the last time, I gave Polly a bag of human chocolate buttons—what harm was it going to do?—and she absolutely loved them.

The vet was not at all surprised to see me back at the surgery. My friend came with me, and we all sat on the floor with Polly while she had her final injection. It was the hardest thing I had ever done in my life, but I came away actually feeling proud of myself for making the decision, as it was the last thing I could do for Polly.

It was very hard on my husband, who was working away and couldn’t be there with us. We talked about waiting another day until he got home, but we both decided that would just be cruel as Polly was clearly suffering. I think it was worse for him, as he came home to an empty house and hadn’t had that final cuddle or a chance to say goodbye. To see a grown man sobbing is just heart-breaking.

It took a good few years until we could get another dog. Changes in jobs meant we were both out all day, but finally we were in a position to get another dog, as I was very lucky to be allowed to bring a dog to work with me. This time we rehomed rather than buying a puppy, and we have never looked back.

Murphy, the cocker spaniel, is everything I didn’t think I wanted—small, white hair, and long ears, but he was there at the right time. He was nearly five when he came to live with us, and he has been part of our household for six years now. It took a while before he bonded with us, and I will never forget the first time I let him off the lead in the woods after being on a long lead for six weeks. He went tearing down the path, and I thought I had judged it wrong and it was too soon. I called him, and he stopped and looked back at me and then rang at top speed straight back, making eye contact with me. That first moment of real connection is something I will never forget.

Murphy is the love of my life, and every now and then, I think that we will only have a few more years with him, as he is 11 years old. I know that when the time is right, I will again be proud that I will make the right decision for my best friend.

Here is a moving account of loving and losing a wonderful canine companion who was by the side of this lady throughout difficult times:

My Yogi Bear

We bought Yogi at the age of nine weeks old, and what a perfect pup he was—he seemed to have been born an old man! The only other way I could describe or name him was Eeyore; he really was a huge softy. After seven years of Yogi being in the family unit, unfortunately, my husband and I divorced, leaving Yogi and I together, and we found we had an amazing and inseparable bond with each other. He never left my side, so from that point on, it was him and me. We lived together, he came to work with me each and every day, and we walked for miles.

Twelve months ago, he became lame for no apparent reason. We had numerous visits to the vet but never found the underlying reason for this lameness. Last Christmas, Yogi passed away, leaving an enormous hole in my heart. He was 12 years old, a little grey around the muzzle, but he was the most amazing dog I had ever owned, and I have owned and lost a few. As he had always come to work with me, the whole office was devastated. He was taken from me so suddenly.

It’s all so hard to put into words. He really was my world. The companionship and faithfulness I had from this beautiful dog was unbelievable. I never dreamt I would have been blessed with such a close friendship with an animal.

Afterwards, coming to work and walking without him, missing the company of this wonderful dog, was like losing my right arm. I am only now able to talk of him fondly without welling up inside, though it still hurts. His ashes are still under my bed, close to me, until I find the right time to be able to put him somewhere I know he will love, close to woods or water, on one of his dream walks.

Happily, sometime later, a new little friend in the form of a golden retriever puppy, called Boris, came into her life:

After a year without my dear Yogi, who left a huge hole in my heart, I just longed not for a replacement but a new adventure with a gorgeous new companion, and already I am totally besotted!