What NOT to Say When Someone Loses a Pet

When I lost Buttercup, I heard some of the same well-meaning but gut-wrenching "condolences" my uncle had complained about upon the loss of his dog. Those without their own pets may not understand how deep this loss feels. So, when offering comfort to someone who has lost a pet, consider whether you would speak the same words to someone who just lost a human loved one.

Would you say to someone who just lost a grandparent: "At least she lived a nice long life"? You shouldn't - so don't say it to someone who lost a pet. No matter how old the pet was, it doesn't change the fact that the person is grieving a great loss.

Would you say to someone who just lost a parent: "At least you have another one"? Of course not. But I heard this one all the time. Yes, I appreciated having Peanut and Biscuit around when I lost Butters. But they weren't the same as having her. And sometimes, it made it harder. Like when I had to scoop their dinner, it was always a reminder that I was only scooping two bowls now. Or how Peanut got super sad when I watched videos of Buttercup, so I had to sneak it without her noticing.

Would you say to someone who just lost a child: "Are you going to have another one?" It's true, eventually we who have lost pets will probably get another one. But I read recently that getting a new pet just after the loss of one is usually a bad idea, because you expect it to fill the void and be just like the pet you lost. You need time to grieve so you aren't getting another pet just to fill the hole. For someone to imply that another pet could just fill that role really hurts.

Instead of saying things like the above, simply say you're sorry to hear about the loss. Ask how the person is doing. Be a listening ear if the person wants to talk about it. And consider your context before asking questions. For instance, I asked my co-workers not to talk to me about Buttercup because I didn't want to cry at work, and I was having a hard time holding it in as it was. I appreciated that by-and-large, my co-workers respected those wishes.

Comfort

I always felt bad for Job, not just because he loses all of his stuff, but because his friends won't shut up about how he must've done something terrible to deserve this tragedy. Some friends!

But then I think, although we don't tend to offer quite the same message to our grieving friends today, we do have a tendency to try to fill the silence with cliches. "Just trust God." "God has a plan for you." "Just pray about it."

It's not that any of those phrases are incorrect. It's just that sometimes, things suck so bad that you just don't have it in you to trust God or hope in his plan. Sometimes, you can't even muster the strength to pray. And cliches and Christianese aren't going to change that. Sometimes those cliches make you feel like a worse person, because you don't want to trust God at that moment. So now you're grieving and you've got a guilt trip.

I was going through a bad break-up in college and facing these kinds of comments from my well-meaning friends. It was certainly better than Job's friends, but I just wanted someone to commiserate, not try to fix it.

And then one day, I wandered into the room across the hall. To be frank, I can't even remember who lived there now. But she knew what I was going through, at the time. I sat down on her bed, crying, and she just got a box of tissues and sat down next to me. She didn't try to fill what was probably an uncomfortable silence for her. She just put her hand on my back, handed me a tissue, and let me cry.

That was the most comforting thing anyone has ever done for me. That was the thing that made me feel like I could get over this. (That and a full-sized carton of Edy's ice cream that had to be eaten in one sitting since I didn't have a freezer.) Not the cliches, not the Bible verses, but the silence of someone who would just let me express my grief without making me feel like I was a bad Christian for being sad.

Sometimes the most comforting thing you can do is nothing. Don't spout out Bible verses and Christian cliches. Just grab a box of tissues and let the griever cry it out.

Stuck

It's been almost three months since I lost my precious baby girl. Three months that feel like so much longer. I tried to picture her the other day and I couldn't really do it, not without looking at a picture on my phone.

After she died, I was sad to keep taking more pictures of Peanut and Biscuit. I have been, but I knew with each click of my camera, that was one more I'd have to scroll through to get to my pictures of Buttercup. I hated to think that we were making more memories that didn't include her.

But even though I was able to overcome that feeling of stuckness and take pictures of new memories, there are so many other ways I still feel paralyzed.

Like I've been wanting to make a photo collage of my best pictures of her. I bought the frames and everything. But they've just been sitting there gathering dust because I can't bring myself to do it. I like looking at pictures of her here and there to remember, but sitting down and looking at pictures from her whole life, knowing it's over...that just feels too hard.

And a few years ago, I started writing a book of devotions about ways Buttercup taught me about God. It later came to include Peanut and Biscuit. I had ample material, and I've been writing one devotion a week to keep up with it. Or at least, I was, until April. You see, I've had inspirations that I've just written about that week, but I also have a whole list of ideas for devotions I want to write. Many of which include Buttercup. I always thought I'd finish the book while she was alive. I had a great idea for a cover shot with the two of us. Writing it now feels so hard. I feel stuck.

I so want to do these things - make her photo collage, finish the book - to honor her life and the way she touched me. And I believe someday I will. I'd love to see my devotion book published some day, with a nice picture of her and her siblings on the inside cover. Then a lot of people can be touched by her the way I was.

If only I didn't feel so stuck. I just want to hold her in my arms again. To wrap her around my shoulders like my little lamb. To show her that book, published, and celebrate with her.

Oh, how I wish I could.

I keep having this image in my mind, of a time last summer when we went to pick her up from our friend after a vacation. She was relaxing in the shade in the backyard and didn't hear us at first. So our friend said, "Buttercup, look who's here..." and she turned and saw us. She jumped to her feet and ran towards us, licking our faces and jumping at us. I hold onto that image with the hope that one day when I die, I'll see her again and she'll run toward me just the same way.