Losing My Dog

A Humbling Lesson in Grief

I painted a mandala for my daughter depicting Reuben last year.

I always thought I was seasoned when it comes to grief, until two weeks ago. I lost my husband Pat 14 years ago, in a very tragic plane crash in 2010, and this was certainly the most devastating experience I’ve had in my life. The grief was prolonged, all-consuming, and the trauma drove itself deep into my psyche. It took me years of mistakes, therapy, inner work and really hard soul-searching to recover. I have such empathy for others who have endured the loss of a spouse, or anyone close to them-- it’s awful, and it changes you. It also teaches you a lesson about the fragility of life, and for me, it made me want to savor my close relationships even more.

One day last March, after going for a walk with me, my rescue dog Reuben collapsed after getting out of the car. I rushed him to the animal ER, and they told me the shocking news: Reuben had a tumor on his heart, and he was dying. Despite my previous life-lesson in loss, I felt totally unprepared for this moment. The vet recommended euthanasia for my 8-year old dog, but she also offered a surgical procedure that might buy him some extra time, called a pericardiocentesis. Reuben had angiosarcoma, which is a deadly cancer that is common in certain breeds. The tumor was bleeding into the heart sac, and when it filled up, his heart couldn’t beat properly, and she said it was a painful way to die. Removing the fluid carefully with a needle might relieve the pressure temporarily— but it could also fail to work, or cause his death.

Reuben and I on a walk in the woods

I chose the surgery, and thankfully, Reuben recovered … but the vet warned me that it would happen again. I felt so relieved to have my dog back, but I also worried about the next impending collapse. Reuben seemed very happy, and quite normal, except he got winded when walking, so I only took him on short walks to relieve himself. Those 6 months were a gift, and I really relished my time with him. We went outside and sat in the grass early mornings, and I took videos of him; I fed him lots of extra treats and took hundreds of photos: Reuben sleeping, Reuben playing with his squeaky toy, Reuben in my car, Reuben at the park, Reuben with my kids, and selfies with Reuben and me. I felt grateful to have had a warning to prepare myself for his death.

And I thought I was prepared! After all, I’d been through much worse with Pat, and I knew that Reuben’s time was limited. I hoped he would be able to move into my new house with me, and he did! He was always at my side, following me from room to room.

Also, I secretly began to doubt that he really had cancer, because he seemed so perky and energetic, always bouncing like a kangaroo when I came home from my errands. The vet had never done a blood test, and although she saw a shadow on his x-ray, I began to believe…maybe he had spontaneously healed… or maybe she was just wrong, and the building up of blood in his pericardium was a unique event, a fluke.

Magical thinking, you’re probably musing to yourself… and you wouldn’t be wrong. I was prone to that when I was little, and apparently, I still am.

So when Reuben collapsed suddenly about a week ago, unable to walk, and stumbled onto the bathroom rug, I followed him muttering “oh no, oh no…. not yet…”. And when he vomited and lay there panting, chest heaving and struggling for air, I knew what was going on. Reuben was 83 lbs, and I couldn’t lift him to the car myself, so I texted one of my sons and asked him to come help me asap. He came right away, and we lifted Reuben on the bathmat and gently loaded him in the back seat. I climbed in after him and my son drove us to the vet while Reuben oscillated between exhausted and prostate, to sitting up panting-gasping and looking very scared. I held him and petted him, trying to calm him down, but inside I felt nauseous with apprehension.

At the vet’s, things only got worse. We put Reuben on a stretcher and the vet assessed him: she said it was an emergent situation. Reuben lost control of his bowels when he had an ultrasound, but he was still looking for me when they brought him back. He looked so spent, but he kept lifting his head until he saw me, so I moved to kneel in front of his face. I kissed his fuzzy nose, holding his soft head in my hands. By that time both my sons were there, and it was up to me to decide whether to “put him to sleep”.

That’s when the shit-show really started. I would not wish this on my worst enemy—it was a heartbreaking decision to have to make. The vet said we could try to take him to the ER for another pericardiocentesis, but the odds weren’t good. He could die on the way, suffering, or he could die in the OR, alone, and it might only buy him a few more days. Rationally, I knew the best thing I could do for my beloved dog was to give him a decent death, and free him from pain and suffering of essentially suffocating. But my heart rejected this decision, and my body felt overwrought with anxiety and despair. I turned into a blubbering, sobbing child, and I felt like my heart was being cleaved in two: how could I kill my best friend?

The euthanasia was not as peaceful as I hoped: Reuben lifted his head twice after the anesthetic was injected, and we helped him put his head down again, but I felt he was fighting it— fighting to stay alive. It was tortuous, and I did NOT feel relief when I felt his breathing stop. I felt agony: heart-wrenching, gut-wrenching, body-shaking agony. I couldn’t stop crying. I was of no consolation to my poor sons; I literally lost it.

Eventually, we got Reuben into a cardboard coffin they gave us, put him in the trunk, and drove home to dig a grave for him on my new property. We were all stunned, and I was worried about telling my daughter, who was working in Boston at the time. She was very, very attached to Reuben too. But digging the grave was a slight relief: it was hard, physical work; a task and a ritual that needed to happen before dark, and we all pitched in. Sweating and digging released some endorphins which mellowed the pain. Finally, my sons both left, and there I was… standing in my new home, alone, and feeling Reuben’s absence acutely.

It's not the first dog I’ve lost, but it is the first dog I’ve had to euthanize myself… my father had always done it with our dogs growing up. And I know that many of you reading this have probably been through it with a pet before, too… this is such a common experience. It’s horrible, but people get through it, and usually learn to love a new pet, full knowing this painful heartbreak is waiting for them at the end of the animal’s life. I thought I knew how to deal with grief… I mean, I’ve spent years in therapy feeling my grief and learning how to process it. So why was I having such a hard time?? I know Reuben was just a dog… but, was he? Why did this hurt so badly?!

The first few days of grieving, I cut myself some slack. I reached out to friends, I cried a lot, I looked at photos of him, I wrote poetry, I went for walks, and tried not to be alone: all the things I had learned from grieving Pat. But 4-5 days later, the sadness wouldn’t subside, and I started feeling very depressed. I still cried a lot, and still I wrote poetry every morning, but I had zero motivation to do any work. I felt both wounded and numb and began to feel like I couldn’t connect with even my closest friends. I stopped calling people because I was ashamed of how much this loss had— has— affected me. Many friends shared stories of losing their pets, but they didn’t describe the kind of deep despondence I was feeling.

The only thing that brought me any relief was looking at puppies on Petfinder, which gave me little bursts of dopamine when I got my hopes up… only to crash when I decided that the said puppy wasn’t right for me. And I confess, I spent hours and hours on Petfinder. Finally, after tolerating my obsessive texts about dog breeds, long vs medium coats, and behavioral characteristics for a week, my own daughter told me, “Mom, you have to stop looking at Petfinder, you’re getting frantic. It’s not healthy, you’re just looking for Reuben!” And of course, she was absolutely right.

I decided that I must be damaged from previous traumas in my life, and therefor unable to recover. Not only did I miss everything about having Reuben in my life, but I began reframing my life—the whole thing—as a giant mess, a tragic failure. A critic from within my psyche, who I thought I had tamed years ago, got loud again: “look at your life now, look how low you’ve sunk… you used to be a badass aerobatic pilot, a professor, an ER nurse… but now, you’re chronically ill… at the whim of every environmental toxin; you live a secluded, lonely life… and your closest friend is your dog…”

Damn, that voice— she’s a bitch. I must remind myself she will find my weakest points and drive a needle into each one.

I wish I had a wonderful, heroic story of how I overcame this sadness and grief, but the fact is… it’s only been less than two weeks, and many days I still struggle. At least I’m aware that the critic is a part of me, but not really me… it’s a voice that I inherited or learned from a variety of sources outside of me: from societal pressure, my demanding teachers, our culture of type-A personalities, and even, at times, my own family. It’s hard to shut the critic up, but I can also show myself some kindness and love, for being a flawed human being who still has a good heart. And who is still able to love… both humans, and dogs (and other animals) despite all the loss I’ve been through.

I often turn to research when I’m feeling bad, so I decided to check in with ol’ Dr. Google. “Why can’t I get over my dead dog?” I typed with fresh teardrops rolling down my cheeks, keenly aware that Reuben was not sitting at my feet. To my surprise, a plethora of articles came up—very interesting, scientific articles— explaining why it’s common to grieve a pet more than a human. “Wow, I’m not crazy”, I thought. Reading these articles was actually a huge relief, and made me feel much less alone.

One article was from Neuroscience News, called “Why Losing a Dog Can Be Harder Than Losing a Friend or Relative”. The author explains “research confirms that for most people, the loss of a dog is, in almost every way, comparable to the loss of a human loved one”. And while we have many rituals to deal with grieving our human loved ones, we have no rituals for grieving dogs, and most dog-owners are left to invent their own rituals alone or within their families.

But we wouldn’t grieve our dogs if it weren’t for the very special bond we form with them (and this can be true for cat owners too). Dogs have evolved over 10,000 years of living with humans and are able to read our emotions from our facial expressions alone. Studies also indicate that dogs can understand human intentions, try to help their owners, and even avoid people who don’t cooperate with, or who mistreat their owners. And studies also show that when dogs and their owners gaze into each other’s eyes, both the owner AND the dog experience a surge of oxytocin, which is the bonding hormone.

According to Neuroscience News, “our strong attachment to dogs was subtly revealed in a recent study of “misnaming.” Misnaming happens when you call someone by the wrong name, like when parents mistakenly call one of their kids by a sibling’s name. It turns out that the name of the family dog also gets confused with human family members, indicating that the dog’s name is being pulled from the same cognitive pool that contains other members of the family. (Curiously, the same thing rarely happens with cat names.)”

Fascinating, isn’t it?

Also, the loss of a pet can seriously disrupt the owner’s daily routine, more than the loss of friends or relatives, and this can be particularly hard for pet owners. Many pet owners structure their days and vacations around the pet’s needs (I know I did!) and the absence of this is profound.

In another article from Psychology Today called “Why Do We Grieve Losing a Pet So Deeply?” author Elizabeth Roper Marcus explains that it’s natural to read human emotions and thoughts in our pet’s expressions. She says we project our emotions onto our pets, and that just deepens the connection we feel with them.

One time, when my daughter was younger, we were sitting on the couch with Reuben. I remember feeling so tickled when she turned to me with a totally sad face and said, “Reuben is crying through his nose, Mom, he’s so sad… he has nose-tears”. Who am I to say, but from my perspective, Reuben just had a runny nose! But I’ll never forget the nose-tears… it still makes me laugh.

Marcus writes about how we can be our best selves with our pets, because the relationship is simple, and the pet can play an infinite number of surrogate roles: sibling to a child who has none; partner to an adult living alone; child to a parent who uses it as a second opportunity to do it “better”, and so on.

In one of the most elegant statements I read on the subject, Marcus writes: “life is complex and often fraught as we struggle in our individual lives and with one another, trying and usually failing to be our best selves. In contrast, our bond with a pet is simple and perfect in a way that no human relationship can be. With pets, we are the ideal parent, teacher, friend, the always-loving, patient person we cannot be in real life. Perhaps along with everything else we lose when a pet dies, is this idealized version of ourselves. Now we must live with our empty arms and laps — and with our diminished selves, as well.”

Even if you don’t have a pet that you may someday have to mourn, it can be helpful to understand your friends and family members who are going through something this difficult, which might not make sense at first glance. A dog isn’t just a dog. They really are deeply bonded with us, and we with them.

Is it possible that I conflated my grief for Reuben with my grief for Pat? Absolutely, I don’t need a scientific study or a therapist to tell me that. Many times, in my magical-thinking mind, I’ve mused that maybe Reuben was Pat reincarnated. It’s slightly ridiculous, but also slightly plausible…? Both had strawberry blond hair, and Reuben’s ear fringe always reminded me of Pat’s long blond eyelashes… and they were both playful and fiercely protective of me… and both totally devoted. And both died suddenly, way before their time. Of course, I don’t mean to equate the loss of Pat with the loss of my dog. I only want to reveal the weaknesses of the human psyche, and the gray landscape where grief lives within each of us, where the edges of things become fuzzy.

What am I doing these days? Well, I still feel those familiar waves of intense sadness, but I’m getting back to work, little by little. I admit, I still talk to Reuben (yes, I say goodnight to his empty bed, aloud) … and I think about him way too much, but I am trying to titrate it better. And I’m limiting my time on Petfinder to a few searches a day, with the goal of once a day (lol) until I find the right puppy/dog.

And that’s all I can do. Though the grief is tremendously uncomfortable, I know it is the consequence of loving deeply. And I will go through it again, inevitably, both with pets and with people, because that’s just life.

With love,

Lise