Pet Loss, Love and Goodbye: Why I Call Them Companion Farewells

When I was about 12, I got my first dog that was truly mine.

We had always had dogs growing up, and my sister and I had loved them dearly in the enthusiastic way little girls tend to love anything with four paws and a wagging tail.

But this time was different.

I got to choose him.

I got to name him.

And he was mine.

I called him Shaggy.

He was a red setter crossed with a border collie and, in my eyes, he was absolutely beautiful.

But Shaggy became far more than the dog I had chosen.

He became my companion.

He knew everything

As I grew from a girl into a teenager, Shaggy became the unfortunate recipient of practically every teenage crisis imaginable.

The friendships.

The disappointments.

The injustice.

The tears.

The hormones.

Oh, the hormones.

I would sit outside with him on the porch in our front garden and pour my heart out.

And Shaggy would listen.

He had those wonderful, understanding eyes that somehow made you believe he knew exactly what you were saying.

Every now and then, at what felt like precisely the right moment, he would put his paw on my arm, or his head on my lap.

Obviously, I took this as confirmation that he completely understood the situation, agreed that everyone else was wrong and recognised that I was entirely justified in my tears.

Naturally.

But underneath the teenage drama was something very real.

Shaggy was safe.

I could tell him anything.

There was no judgement.

No interruption.

No telling me I was overreacting.

No requirement to explain myself better.

I could just sit beside him and be.

And whatever version of me turned up that day, he loved her.

That is companionship.

Then one day, I had to say goodbye

When Shaggy died, I was heartbroken.

We buried him in our back garden.

I wrote him a goodbye letter and placed it with him.

I put in a few of his favourite bones in case he got hungry.

And a toy in case he got bored.

Looking back, I can smile at the innocence of that.

But I would never laugh at the grief behind it.

Because I loved him.

And I needed to do something with that love when suddenly there was nowhere for it to go.

I needed to say goodbye.

“But he was only a pet”

I remember feeling as though I was expected to move on quite quickly.

Nobody was deliberately cruel. I think people just didn't quite understand.

He was a dog.

A pet.

Life continued.

But to me, Shaggy had never been “just” anything.

He had been there through some of the most emotionally confusing years of growing up.

He had listened to secrets nobody else knew.

He had sat beside me when I cried.

He had played with me, followed me, comforted me and loved me with that uncomplicated loyalty animals seem to give so freely.

I hadn't only lost a pet.

I had lost my companion.

And there is a difference.

That's why I call them Companion Farewells

I could have called this service a pet funeral.

Or a pet memorial.

People would immediately understand what I meant.

But neither quite expresses what I believe we are saying goodbye to.

Because the animal sharing your home may also be the one who waits at the window for you.

The one who somehow knows when you're having a difficult day.

The one who has slept beside you through illness.

Walked miles beside you.

Sat at your feet while you worked.

Been there through relationships, house moves, children growing up, bereavements, celebrations and ordinary Tuesday afternoons.

They become woven into the rhythm of a household.

Sometimes they have been beside us for an entire chapter of our lives.

So when they die, the space they leave can be enormous.

Companion Farewell acknowledges that.

It says: this relationship mattered.

This life was loved.

This bond deserves to be recognised.

And you are allowed to grieve it.

Especially for children

Perhaps this is the part closest to my heart because I remember being that young person trying to understand what had happened to the friend I loved.

Children may not fully understand death, but they understand absence.

They notice the empty bed.

The unused lead.

The bowl that isn't needed anymore.

The missing sound of paws coming down the hallway.

And while adults may be searching for the right words to explain death, sometimes a small act of farewell can help a child express something they don't yet have the language for.

Perhaps they draw a picture.

Write a letter.

Choose a flower.

Tell their favourite story.

Place a favourite toy somewhere special.

Or say one last goodbye.

There is no requirement for a Companion Farewell to be elaborate.

It just needs to mean something.

A place for the love to go

That is really what I wish I had understood all those years ago.

My letter, Shaggy's bones and that toy weren't childish nonsense.

They were my way of honouring a relationship that had mattered enormously to me.

They gave my love somewhere to go.

And perhaps that is what farewell ceremonies do at their very best.

They don't remove grief.

They don't make losing our companion suddenly acceptable.

But they give us a moment to stop.

To remember.

To speak.

To acknowledge what has been.

And to say:

You mattered to me.

Thank you for being part of my life.

I will miss you.

That is why Grace Expressed offers Companion Farewells.

Not because they were “only a pet.”

But because sometimes the one we are saying goodbye to was our confidant, our constant, our comfort, our shadow and our friend.

Sometimes they were exactly what the name says.

Our companion.

And that deserves to be acknowledged.