When the animal that was part of the family dies: euthanasia, guilt and children

On Friday afternoon the vet said the kidneys had stopped working and that it was time. On Monday morning you are standing in the kitchen with two cups of coffee and a lead in your hand, because your hands set off for the walk on their own. The water bowl is still on the floor. Your child asks whether Bella will be sleeping at Grandma’s now. Your partner says he will put it away “over the weekend”. And you don’t know which hurts more: that she is gone, or that you were the one who signed the consent form.

I have written about why grieving an animal is not an overreaction, and what happens in the body when you do, in Grieving a pet: why this is not an overreaction. Here I would like to look at something else: what happens to a family when the animal that was part of it dies. How to live with the decision to euthanise, why everyone at home grieves in their own way, and what to tell children without lying to them.

The animal wasn’t “someone on the side”; it had a place of its own

In 2009 the family therapist Froma Walsh described in the journal Family Process something that people who live with animals know without any research: an animal in a family is not an accessory, it has a role. Around the dog, a father and a teenager who otherwise barely speak at least talk about whose turn it is to take him out. The cat is the one a child goes to when the parents are arguing. The old dog is the last one who still remembers the flat where the two of you started your life together. A family laughs around an animal, calms down around it, and sometimes says through it what it doesn’t dare say directly.

When I look at a family as a system, as relational family therapy teaches me to, this matters. When a member leaves a system, it isn’t only the number that changes. The paths people used to reach one another change too. The evening walk may have been the only twenty minutes you and your partner had alone. Feeding time at seven gave the day its beginning. Without the animal those places stay empty, and it is often only then that you see how much it was carrying.

So when a family animal dies, several things actually leave at once: the daily rhythm, the role it had among you, and the chapter of life it accompanied.

This view also explains something that often surprises people: that sometimes the one who grieves most is the one who said, when the dog arrived, that they didn’t want one.

Why the people around you often don’t see it

In 1989 the American grief researcher Kenneth Doka introduced the term disenfranchised grief: grief after a loss that those around you don’t acknowledge, that has no ritual and can’t be shown in public. The death of an animal is a textbook example. There is no obituary, no leave from work, no condolences. There is, however, the sentence “you’ll get another one”. I have described how this mechanism works with miscarriage, divorce or losing a job in The grief nobody acknowledges: miscarriage, divorce, losing a job, so I won’t repeat it here.

I would add just one figure, so you know you are not an exception. Cindy Adams and her colleagues followed 177 owners from fourteen veterinary practices in Ontario after the death of their animal. Roughly 30 per cent experienced severe grief. How severe it was depended, among other things, on society’s attitude to this kind of loss, on the owner’s view of euthanasia and on how much support they felt they had from the veterinary team. In other words: it matters whether someone says “I understand” or “it was only a cat”.

With an animal that was part of the family, the lack of acknowledgement has one more face. Sometimes it is the outside world that doesn’t acknowledge the loss, and sometimes we don’t acknowledge it to one another at home. More on that a little later.

Euthanasia: a decision you make on its behalf

When a person dies, we do not as a rule decide the time of death. With an animal, we do. The vet tells you what the situation is and what is still possible, but the decision is yours. There is something merciful in that, because you can spare the animal suffering, and something almost unbearable, because nobody can tell you which day is the right one.

There is no right day. There is a range. At one end is “she could have gone on a bit”, at the other “it went on too long”, and almost everyone who has made this decision later wonders whether they were too close to one edge or the other. A few things can make deciding less lonely:

• Ask the vet directly. Not only “what else can we do” but “what would you do if she were yours” and “what will next month look like”. Vets also use quality-of-life scales that ask about pain, appetite, drinking, hygiene, mobility and whether there are still more good days than bad.
• Watch days, not moments. An animal can have one lovely afternoon in a bad week. Some people find it helps to keep a calendar and mark each evening whether the day was good or bad. When the bad ones take over, you see it in black and white and not only through hope or fear.
• Decide together, as far as you can. If one person in the family decides alone while the other “can’t talk about it”, that person is later left alone with the guilt as well. Not everyone has to agree. What matters is that each of you has said what you think.
• Talk about the day itself in advance. Who will be there, whether the children will be there, what will happen to the body. The vet will tell you which options are available. Decisions made in the waiting room are the ones that gnaw at you most afterwards.

And one more thing: sometimes there is no decision. The animal dies suddenly, under a car, during an operation, in the night. Then guilt finds another question, “why didn’t I notice sooner”, but its structure is the same.

Guilt after euthanasia takes several forms

Guilt after a loss is almost the rule, not the exception; how it arises and why the mind clings so hard to the words “I could have” is explained in Guilt after a loss: “I could have done more”. After euthanasia, though, it has a particular edge, because it isn’t only the feeling that you didn’t do enough. It is the feeling that you did something final. The animal trusted you, and you took her there.

That thought is understandable and at the same time unfair to you. You took her there because you were the only one who could take responsibility for her not suffering any longer. Researchers who have studied attachment to animals, among them Nigel Field and his colleagues, describe grief as generally stronger where the bond was closer. Guilt is therefore often a measure of closeness turned inside out, and not proof of a mistake.

I would like to pause at two forms that are talked about least. The first is relief. Someone who has spent months giving medication, wiping the floor at night and checking first thing every morning whether the animal is still breathing often feels, once it is over, that a weight has lifted. And then is frightened by that. Relief says nothing about how much you loved her. It says how hard it was.

The second is money. Treating an animal can be expensive, and many people reach a point where they cannot pay for further tests or surgery. People almost never say this aloud, because it sounds as though you put a price on a life. But deciding within what a family can manage is not indifference. It is part of the responsibility you also have towards the people living in the same house.

Everyone in the family grieves differently

Because each person lost something different with the animal, the grieving is not in step either. One cries every evening, another puts the basket away on the third day, a third says nothing at all. And the impression quickly forms that somebody doesn’t care. A conversation might sound something like this (composed, not a real person):

“You just put her bowl away. Three days after.”
“I couldn’t look at it any more. Every time I walked past, my chest tightened.”
“To me it felt as if you were erasing her.”
“And I thought I was helping you by getting it out of sight.”
“I needed you to ask me.”
“All right. Which of her things would you like to stay?”

Nobody in this short scene is grieving wrongly. One copes by staying close to the things, the other by moving them away. The researchers Margaret Stroebe and Henk Schut describe this swinging between turning towards the loss and turning towards everyday life as an ordinary part of grieving; there is more on this in The stages of grief are a myth: what really happens after a loss. The trouble starts when we begin to read the differences as proof of love or of indifference.

In grieving an animal this is even more delicate, because at home, too, there is a silent scale of how much is “proper”. The one who grieves harder feels ridiculous. The one who grieves less feels cold. One simple agreement helps: that you tell each other what each of you needs before anyone puts away, gives away or throws out anything.

Children: what to say and what not to

For many children the death of a family animal is the first death they experience up close. In an article with the telling title “And then the dog died”, Kenneth and Nathaniel Kaufman pointed out that adults tend to underestimate this loss in children, although it can be very real. It is also an opportunity: through it a child learns how this family deals with sorrow. Whether it is talked about. Whether adults are allowed to cry. Whether the one who died may still be mentioned.

How to talk to a child about death at different ages is described in detail in How to talk to a child about death – by age. With an animal, and with euthanasia in particular, I would add a few things:

• Don’t say she was “put to sleep” or “fell asleep”. A small child takes words literally. If sleep is something you don’t wake up from, bedtime becomes frightening. Say “she died” and explain that this means her body no longer works and nothing hurts her.
• Don’t say she ran away or went to live on a farm. The child will wait for her to come back, or conclude that she left them. When they later learn the truth, they also lose some trust in you.
• Explain euthanasia simply. For example: “She was very ill and medicine couldn’t help her any more. The vet gave her an injection so that she died peacefully and without pain. We decided this because we didn’t want her to suffer.” Add that this is only done for animals that are very ill or very old, otherwise the child may become afraid of their own next visit to the doctor.
• Tell them it isn’t their fault. Younger children often believe they caused the death themselves, because they forgot to fill the water bowl or because they were cross with her. They rarely say this thought aloud, so lift it from them in advance.
• Let them take part in the goodbye. A drawing, a pebble on the grave, choosing a photograph. Whether a child should be present at the euthanasia itself depends on their age and on the child; if you ask them and tell them what they will see, most children can say for themselves what they can manage.

Don’t hide your own tears from your child. A child who sees that a parent is hurting and that the parent nevertheless doesn’t fall apart receives an important message: sorrow is something you can get through together. What confuses them more than crying is a silence in which everyone tiptoes around and nobody says the name.

The other animal at home, and the question of a new one

If there is another animal left in the house, it may have changed too. Owners often describe a dog or cat eating less, sleeping more, searching the flat or staying closer to people after a companion’s death. In an Italian study by Stefania Uccheddu and colleagues, dog owners described such changes very frequently. Whether this is grief in the human sense of the word, researchers cannot claim, since animals also respond to a changed routine and to their people’s distress. Keep the rhythm of feeding and walks, and if the changes persist or the animal stops eating, consult your vet.

And then there is the question other people ask too soon: “When are you getting a new one?” There is no rule. Some people need a year, others can’t bear an empty house for even a month, and both are fine. It is only worth asking yourself two questions. Am I looking for a new animal, or am I looking for the old one back? A new one will be different, and it isn’t fair to ask it to fill exactly the same place. And do we all agree at home? If one of you is ready and another isn’t yet, the slower one is the one to go by.

With children I would be careful about a quick replacement. A new kitten a week after the old cat’s death tells a child that someone you love can be swapped. Sometimes that is exactly the opposite of what we wanted to teach them.

Exercise: a family goodbye in five steps

Since society has no ritual for an animal, make one yourselves. It doesn’t have to be big. Half an hour set aside for this alone is enough. You can do it today, even if months have passed since the death.

1. Choose a time and a place. An evening at the table, a walk along her favourite route, the place where she is buried. Tell everyone beforehand so that nobody is caught by surprise.
2. Everyone brings one thing or one memory. A photograph, a toy, the collar, a story. Children can draw a picture. Anyone who doesn’t want to speak can simply listen.
3. Everyone finishes the sentence “I will miss …”. And, if they can, “Thank you for …” as well. Briefly, without correcting one another. Funny memories belong here too.
4. Agree on what happens to her things. What stays, what goes to a shelter, what goes into a box. Nothing disappears until everyone agrees.
5. Choose a place of remembrance. A framed photograph, a tree you plant, the collar on a hook. Something that says she was here, and that this was allowed to matter.

If you live alone, you can do the same on your own or with a friend. And if guilt is what weighs on you most, write her a letter: what you would like to tell her about the last day, what you are sorry for, what you are grateful for. The method is described in the knowledge base as The letter you don’t send.

Where this post doesn’t apply

Everything I have written rests on the assumption that the animal was part of the family. It is only fair to say where that doesn’t hold, or where the answer lies elsewhere.

Not everyone grieves intensely, and that is not a fault. In the Ontario study roughly 30 per cent of owners grieved severely, which means that most did not. Someone who was sad for a few days and then moved on is not unfeeling. Perhaps the bond was different, perhaps they said goodbye during the illness. Even within the same family.

For some people an animal is not a family member. On a farm where animals are born and die all year round, the relationship is different, though not necessarily less respectful. The words in this post are not meant to prescribe to anyone how much they ought to feel.

Sometimes the animal carries another loss. If the dog was the last link to a late husband, or the cat came into the house in the year of the divorce, her death can also open up what was never grieved before. Then you are not grieving “too much for an animal”; you are grieving two things at once, and it helps to know which two.

Sometimes help is needed. If after several months you can’t manage work, if the guilt is sharpening and not softening, if you avoid everything that reminds you of her, or if you are someone for whom the animal was your only daily company, that is reason enough to talk to a professional. I describe the signs in When loss needs professional help: the signs and where to turn. As a therapist in training under supervision in relational family therapy, I work with adults, couples and families, including English-speaking clients; I don’t work individually with minors, but a family can come together. If the loss brings thoughts that life isn’t worth living, don’t wait: in Slovenia you can call the mental distress line on 01 520 99 00 (every day from 7 pm to 7 am), the Samarijan confidential helpline on 116 123 (24 hours a day), the TOM helpline for children and young people on 116 111, and in an emergency 112.

What to remember

• An animal has its own place in a family; when it dies, the rhythm of the day, the role it had among you and a chapter of life leave with it.
• With euthanasia there is no right day, only a range. You decided with what you knew then.
• Guilt and relief after euthanasia are common and do not mean you loved her too little.
• Everyone at home grieves differently. Before anyone puts anything away, ask what each of you needs.
• Tell children the truth in simple words: “she died”, not “she fell asleep” or “she ran away”.