The pain of losing a dog and how we deal with it

I'm a tough cookie, I get on with life no matter what it throws at me.

Including when I go through the pain of losing one of my amazing dogs.

I've quite possibly lost more dogs over my 50 plus years than most people will ever own in their lifetimes. Does the pain get easier?

I remember 20 odd years ago I'd just put to sleep my beautiful old girl Venus. She was dignified to the end, but I had decided that her legs had just got too weak and she was getting distressed from struggling to get up.

I had returned from the vets and gone back to work, because that's what I do. My first client of the afternoon decided to try and comfort me by saying "well, you've got loads more so it can't be that bad when you lose one, you must be used to losing them."

I thought for a minute — I'm good at hiding tears — and replied, "If I poke you in the eye will it hurt?" He replied, "Well, yes."

"Ok," I said, "so if I continue to poke you in the eye, will it still hurt each time?" I didn't give him chance to answer. "Yes, it will," I said, "and the only time it's ever going to stop hurting is when death takes you."

It never gets easier. Maybe it gets a little more predictable, the process of grief, but never easier to recover from the loss of another life that I have been so closely connected to.

When I lost my first dog, I asked a local artist to paint him on a canvas with these words below. This old painting still hangs at the foot of my stairs now, and I see and read it every day.

Such a beautiful piece of writing, and one I follow regarding my relationship with all my precious dogs.

We all deal with grief in our own way.

No one's way is the correct or right way to deal with it.

No one's way should be compared to anyone else's as some form of comparative effect.

We all deal with it, the way that we deal with it.

I would never tell anyone who has, or is dealing with grief, to buck up and get on with life. It's not my place, nor would I accept anyone telling me the same.

Occasionally one of my clients may be faced with an older or particularly injured dog being put to sleep. I'm there for them to talk to if they wish. If I feel they are able, I will ask them to describe a loving memory from their past — a visit to the beach, a habit in the house, or the moment they chose their pet from the rescue centre. I'll listen to the story; quite often their demeanour will lift a little as they reminisce over past holidays and funny events connected to their missing dog. I hope that the thought stays with them for a while, maybe bringing a little comfort as they deal with the loss and change in the routine that may have existed for multiple years.

My dealing with loss

Like I mentioned above, my dealing with loss is accompanied by me carrying on with my day. I am blessed with a brain that can work efficiently and accurately while my mind slips to memories of spending time with my missing friend.

I focus on the good times.

Yes, the pain of loss is real, and my heart feels the tear as one of my amazing dogs slips into another world and leaves the rest of us behind. But my way to deal is to remember. I'll play through our first meeting, our first time on the beach, our cuddles in the evenings. Their smell and their touch, and always their eye contact.

I will never forget a detail.

I won't let myself forget.

I don't dwell on the last memory of them; death is a part of life. When I buy or breed my puppies I know that at some point I will deal with the end. It does not scare me. I know that the pain will come and that my heart will tear, but I also know that the memories made — in time — will outweigh those feelings at the end.

Without the feelings at the very end, I wouldn't have a million awesome and happy memories to remember. And I want those memories so very much.

I'm lucky that almost all my dogs have died in my arms at the vets. They were safe and pain free, and held tightly to the very end. I would trace around the shape of their face with my finger, take in the deep colours of their eyes and breathe in their breath. The feeling of their last breaths would cause my heart to cry out in silent pain. As their eyes lost the focus of our gaze, I would tell them what amazing babies they were and would always be, and that while I could never explain just how much I loved them, I hoped that they knew a little of how much they meant to me. Only when back outside in the security of my van would the tears flow, as I would hold each of the others and tell them what had happened.

It's a difficult process to go through, but it's survivable. And it's necessary.

I find it sad that I sometimes hear owners say that they could never have another dog because of the pain of losing them. I find that so sad for the owner, but sadder for the unloved dog whose life could be made so incredibly full by being partnered with such an owner, who must have felt nothing but pure love for their lost pet.

The dogs I've lost

I've lost more dogs than most people, due to the number of dogs I own and have owned. Each one I've lost still bears a mark on my soul, as well as on my skin, in a tattoo of the moon where each lost dog is added to when the time has come.

Some of my dogs have made a grand old age, some died way too young. All have spent their lives with me; I have been their constant presence throughout their lifetime. Even the ones who have died young have had the most amazing quality of life, and I like to think that they know that in some way.

Photos and videos help, of course. Seeing them running about on beaches and doing agility is beautiful to watch and shows them happy and healthy.

My house is full of photos of my dogs, many doing agility or running through the fields. Dogs present and lost are displayed in all their glory from my walls, always present in my evenings.

In my bedroom there is a single large photo of each of my lost dogs. I don't have photos of anyone who hasn't left me in there. That special place is just for my missing dogs. As I sleep, I feel that they are there watching over me, and the dogs who sleep on my bed with me — it's their place.

My beliefs in what happens afterwards

We are all entitled to our own beliefs in what happens after death. It can be a very private thing. I was brought up as the granddaughter of a vicar, so church played a part in my childhood. I also have a scientific mind — I like to have the explanation for things, a reason why things happen and how. Not always possible, of course. Do I believe in heaven? Do I believe that there is nothing after death, just the reconfiguration of matter and energy?

Well, that's for me to know and no one else's business.

Do I believe I will see and spend time with my lost dogs again? Of course I do. In one form or another, whether physically or on another plane, I will be reunited with my dogs again. We will all meet up again and spend eternity together. That keeps me going.

The last words I whisper in my dogs' ears as they slip away are, "Wait for me, my love. I will be with you before you know it, and we will all run on the beach together again."

It's my way of dealing with loss.

I remember years ago I had the pleasure to treat the aged spaniel of an old lady who was a serious church-goer. We had many friendly conversations on evolution and creation, and she firmly stuck to her beliefs. I asked her once if animals go to heaven.

She answered straight away that it wasn't mentioned in the Bible, so no, they didn't. Heaven was for humans. That was her belief. She would be going there to meet her husband and parents, and not her past dogs and cats.

Towards the end of her dog's treatment, she beckoned me closer and, in a near-silent whisper, as if trying to keep what she was about to say inaudible to the Main Man, she said, "But Kate, I know where the back door is, so when I've fulfilled my duties for the day I can nip outside and throw the ball for Max and Buddy."

So sweet a thing to say and believe, and such a display of how much love a person can have for their animals.

My shelves of boxes

I have an old set of shelves in my house. It's followed me around through house move to house move. Its only purpose is to hold the wooden boxes containing my missing dogs' ashes. As I add each box to the collection, I decorate each one with a few tiny reminders: a shell for Slide, who loved the sea so much; a tiny fluffy bunny for Kiefer, whose ears were so big it earned him the nickname "Bunnylugs"; the puppy collar worn by my first dog, Dylan, from whom I owe so much knowledge of Border Collies.

They stay on the shelves as a little reminder that they are no longer present, but neither are they trapped in those boxes. The boxes just contain a remnant of their physical being; it means that I know where their remains are. Their souls are still glowing and active, and they are free and running and playing just as before, waiting until we can all run together again.

Losing a loved pet is a terrible weight on us. It doesn't get easier or less painful. But I think we should take comfort in the fact that if our dogs had not touched our lives in such an incredible and love-filled way, we would not miss them so much when they have gone.

I cherish every single moment I share with my dogs.

I can only advise everyone else to do the same.

I can only hope that my amazing dogs share the same feelings regarding me, and that they somehow know that we will all be chasing each other around in the sand dunes again very soon.

I truly believe, and have to believe, that they do.

— Kate