I had a Dog Support client yesterday that I  admired and enjoyed talking to. She wanted help dealing with grief.

She is a school teacher in California who lost her dog Ginnie, who accompanied and supported her through illness, divorce, and the loss of her parents and a close friend.

She quite understandably suffered greatly when Ginnie died, but she also is ambitious about her life and strong in her dreams.

She wants to move on. In my experience, I’ve found that only the strong get help when they need it. I think I helped; I hope so.

We’ll see.

Grieving for dogs is a painful and difficult thing.

When dogs and people first met, the relationship was transactional.

Dogs were not seen as family members, were not given human names, did not (ever) sleep in beds or alongside humans, and there was no such thing as dog food, vets, furbabies, or dog monuments and burial sites.

Dogs helped pre-historic people to hunt and served as alarms and protectors.

When dogs got old and sick, they did not go to no-kill shelters; they were either killed by their humans,  eaten by predators, or went to a cave of their own to die.

Life was much too difficult to spend much time grieving for a dog.

Things have changed; as we all know, the loss of a dog can be devastating, significantly if they live to old age, were seen as part of the family, worked with people in different ways, or ended up as cherished companions, comforting us in life,  loneliness, sorrow, old age or illness.

Dogs are central in our lives, not peripheral, and we often love them as much or even more than we love the humans in our families.

Their loss can be devastating, and it often embarrasses people and makes them feel weak or silly, which makes everything worse. Bosses, spouses, and even friends can be impatient and unsympathetic.

But grieving hurts, and it is always an individual thing. There are no general rules for everybody.

I never tell anyone to move on or get over it; that is insensitive and unhelpful.

I don’t want to dump my grief on other people – everyone who loves dogs suffers when they die – so I mostly keep my grief to myself until I get over it. It’s never unique to me.

People have their grief; I don’t need to give them mine unless they are close friends or family members. When I can, I listen.

Even then, others don’t need to hear too much about my loss and grief since dogs don’t live as long as we do, and those who love dogs will do it again and again.

And I never respond to their grief by telling them about mine.

The platitudes usually offered to people grieving the loss of their lives seem useless cliches to me since grieving is an individual thing; people are different, dogs are other, and the place dogs have in our lives is different.

I don’t tell other people how to grieve or when to stop; this is something only they can and should decide; I’m not inside their heads, lives, or hearts.

People who pretend to have all the answers to healing from dog grief are winging it in many cases – nothing works for everyone.

Dog grieving is severe and potentially dangerous; it should be taken seriously. If this is what they need, people need time and space to grieve and have monuments, tombstones, visual memory pages, and memorials.

If it goes on for too long, they might need professional help.

I have lost several special dogs – Orson, Lenore, Frieda, Izzy, and Rose – and I still feel their loss. But there is something unique about dogs that applies to no other loss.

It’s simple, really, and in a way, quite obvious.

I can get another one.

I’ve developed my philosophy about grieving for dogs since I know I will experience it again and again.

When one dies, I have an original mantra I use that helps me:

Thank you, Rose/Red/Lenore, etc., for being here. I am grateful for every day we spent together. I love and appreciate you, and I give thanks to you. I loved you so much I am going to find another dog to love just as much, if not more. I chose a gratitude stone or piece of wood to remind me of you, and thank you. I know you would wish me to move on with my life, so I will; I choose to love another dog rather than mourn you and the others. I want to live on and love another dog and make him or her happy. The rest of my life is waiting for me.

That works wonders for me.

For me, dogs are about love, support, and companionship, not mourning and grief.

The grief eases and begins to weaken when I find another dog or start thinking about one when I am ready, which can be a week or a year.

I wait until it is about done and then bring another dog into my life. I move forward in gratitude and love, understanding how lucky I am to be able to do this again.

Sometimes, I keep ashes around; sometimes, as with Red, I dig a hole in the ground in the pasture with the sheep, put a stone on it, and say hello whenever I need to.

The love of dogs in my life never goes away. They all marked the passages of my life and helped me, and supported me on my long path to peace and happiness.

To some extent, pain is inevitable; suffering is a choice. People must decide how long they wish to grieve and when they wish to heal.

I doubt I would be here without them, from Julius and Stanley to Zinnia, Bud, and Fate.

I’m cautious about who I decide to support regarding dog grief. Some people want to move on; some people can’t, and some people won’t.

I can only help the ones who want to move on and respect others to grieve in the best way for them. There is no contempt or ridicule in my heart and consciousness for people who need time to grieve.

I’ve walked in those shoes, as has everyone reading this.

My heart goes out to all of us; loss is the toll, the price we pay for having these beautiful creatures in our lives.

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If you need Dog Support for any reason, it’s $50 per half hour on the phone, Facetime, or via Zoom; e-mail me at [email protected].