The Death of a Pet

by Robin Fast

Somewhere in my basement, in a cardboard box surrounded, I’m sure, by other forgotten and less important items, waits my wife’s dog—at least what’s left of him. The urn, which I dutifully kept track of through several moves, has been waiting quietly for more than a dozen years. One day, my wife says, we’ll do something about it. All I can think is I hope it happens before there’s an urn in this house holding a pile of me—I’d hate for the two urns to get mixed up (or to get mixed together for that matter).

Years ago, when her dog died, my wife couldn’t bring herself to do anything with his ashes, although she said she would “sometime soon.”

But soon turned into next week, next month, then next year.

Now I can’t locate what was once a pretty noisy bundle of rambunctious dog.

My wife is not impressed.

For me, her concern is a reminder of how different my experience was growing up on the prairies, where farm life didn’t involve much sentiment for animals alive or dead, no matter how important a dog or cat, pig or chicken, had been to an individual in the family. Practicality, at times, overshadowed emotion. Often, when an animal died, I remember thinking I was on my own with any feelings of loss.

So a few months ago, when I was called upon to euthanize one of our cats and was faced with helping three young children through the experience of losing a pet, I decided that it was an opportunity to handle the death of an animal differently.

The vet suggested that I make sure we talk with the children first, letting them ask questions and letting them know our plan. There were lots of tears during the first conversation and more again when they said goodbye to the cat a couple of days later. I went to the vet without them and returned with a description of what it had been like for her, how helpful the staff had been and what would happen to her body. I told them we would have a ceremony for her when we received her ashes and then we speculated about where we’d put them. I found a couple of photos of her from when she was a kitten (which was before the children were born) and we put them on the refrigerator.

Two weeks later on a quiet Sunday afternoon, I went outside to dig a hole in the backyard. My son followed me. He quickly volunteered to take over and, as I pruned a tree beside him, he dug.

That night, before supper, the five of us went outside with flashlights. I planned to tell a brief story about the day I brought her home as a kitten, sprinkle the ashes in the ground and then cover the hole as everyone else stood quietly beside me.

That’s not what happened, though, and I was delighted.

Before my story was complete, the kids quickly added their own. Soon we were having a conversation filled with everyone’s memories. When I sprinkled the cat’s ashes, one of the girls asked if we could give her some treats and then ran inside, bringing one back for each of us to place into the grave. Once the dirt was replaced we went inside for supper and to continue what, for me, felt like a perfect day.

The death of a pet seems to be a wonderful opportunity—a chance to introduce children to death, one of the most critical and yet ignored realities of our existence, and to the importance and healing power of shared ceremony.

And just maybe, when there is a jar hanging around with a big pile of me in it (sitting on a shelf next to the dog, if I ever manage to find him), they’ll have a story or two to tell, a treat to leave me, and enough experience to have the strength to lift the shovel.

Robin Fast is an instructor in Camosun College’s Community, Family, & Child Studies Diploma program. He is also a learning and growing parent, step-parent and foster parent.