Losing a pet is one of the hardest trials facing those of us who love them.  It helps to recognize that we all leave the planet at some point, and that the process is natural.  But at the time, it hurts.  Enormously.  And often, it hurts for a long time.  A friend recently said to me, "I can't believe I still miss our little dog Peter.  He died four years ago, and I still think of him often, and miss him very much." 

We all still pine for the furry friends we've lost over the years.  But it really does help to write about them.  And paying as much attention as possible to new fuzzy faces who've come into our homes is a joyful way to bring comfort and laughter back into our daily lives. 

Adopting a new cat or dog (or turtle or snake) really helps fill the awful void. Knowing we can help an orphan who oftentimes has been abandoned or mistreated by humans is another thing that helps recover from the loss of a pet. 

Below you'll find the beginning of tributes to pets I personally have known and loved.  You'll be finding more as I can get the stories up in this space.  You'll also find some links below to stories young and senior participants in "Pawprints" classes and writing clubs have written. And stories and photos sent in by visitors to our site.

I hope you find some comfort here, if you have lost a pet.  And, please, if you have a story you'd like to share, scroll down to the box at the bottom of this page and send it in.  We're posting visitor stories and photos and would be pleased to add yours.

Rapscallion P. Cat, a.k.a., Rapper

 

You've met Rapscallion P. Cat, right, the fellow about whom I wrote, "Of all the men long gone in my life, I think he's the one I miss the most."  (You can find the story by clicking here, and more pictures here.)

I lost him many years back.  For a long time, he appeared to me in dreams, and I was always so glad to see him.  We lived together from the time he was six months old until he died at 21. 

Rapper was an amazing cat. Extremely smart, very funny.  When we lived in New Orleans, and he was just a kid, he used to make sure he had my attention, keep a watch on me while he approached one of the plants I tended in the apartment, jump into the pot, turning to watching for my inevitable approach, and dart off at the very last minute, just when I was about to grab him. 

He was clearly playing, and I could never really get mad at him, a fact of which he was well aware, of course. 

I am writing this to send a salute to the guy, one of the best pussycats ever.

Sascha Cat

1994-2004

It saddens me greatly to announce that dear Sascha Cat died in February of this year.  She was a light and protectress, a devil in a cat suit, loveable and gorgeous.  She was too young to go. 

"Little" Sasch (she actually weighed 14 pounds) was the daughter of Silverberry, a fantastic, huge Prussian blue long hair, about whom I will also be writing, and Tamba Cat, all featured characters in "Pawprints."  Sasch was one of six kids.  You can see a picture of Tamba with Sasch and her siblings by clicking here. 

Sasch was a Maine Coon, one of the most appealing of all cat breeds.  Her personality, luxurious fur and markings were equally outstanding. 

When Sascha was born, we lived in Carmel-by-the-Sea.  She was the imp who always knew when I was going off on a business trip, and when I wanted to take her somewhere, both occasions for an abrupt disappearing act. 

Once I was moving for a few months to New York City.  Our Carmel house, which would remain home base, had a beautiful view of a valley, and lots of fun grounds for cat romping.  Sasch, to get out of my reach, loved to zoom out to the edge of a steep cliff in the back, slip under the fence, and laugh at me. That's exactly where she went the morning I was trying to catch that NY plane.  In tears, I went to the airport without her finally, with the promise that her caretaker would send her to me as soon as she could round Sasch up.

Fast forward some years to Brentwood, and the arrival of Pixelle, "She who Would Torment."  Tamba wasn't having any whenever Pix tried to play, so she took to stalking Sasch, who was far more tolerant for some reason.  However, come bedtime, Sasch would jump on top of me, and when Pix came to bug me in the middle of the night, Sasch would bat her off.

One awful day, not long after Pix came into our lives, Sasch began showing signs of trouble. She started not wanting to eat, which was not at all like her. I noticed she wasn't using the litter box much either.  She began to need me to protect her from Pix, as she didn't seem to have the oomph to fight off Pix's persistent advances.  After two days of this, I became worried and brought her to see Dr. Baum.  He suspected there might be a growth in her abdomen, took an x-ray, and sure enough, there was a very large mass.  A few days later, after further testing, I brought Sasch in for exploratory surgery.  Again I was thrilled that Dr. Baum permits people to go back and visit with their companions when they are in the hospital.  Sasch purred for the whole hour I stayed with her, and rubbed against my hand constantly.  Within a short time after the doctors took Sasch into the operating room, I got the call from Dr. Baum telling me they'd found the growth.  It was a tumor, and the way it was entwined with other organs nearby made it inoperable.  They'd taken a biopsy and as soon as it came back, we would discuss treatment possibilities.  But we never got the chance. Poor Saschie suffered what we think was a stroke, and never woke up from the anesthesia. 

I take some comfort in knowing she didn't have to go through what could have been a very difficult treatment regimen.  Tamba and I miss her terribly, but at least we have that thought to bring us some relief.

Pix?  She's the new devil in a cat suit.                       

COMING:  Stories of more wonderful cats and dogs with whom we've been privileged to live, from Ina and from kids and other grownups.
 

Yoda
Beloved Friend of Elaine Giampietro
1990-2006

My beloved Yoda crossed the Rainbow Bridge on Sept. 16th. We had a magical morning where he left the foot of my bed (his "spot" for 5 days) and laid down on my chest - heart to heart. We had an amazing "be with." I thanked him for bringing such fun to my life and recalled many of our adventures in many states. I assured him that Nana (my mom) would be giving him "many kitty lovings and scratches."

He left my chest and snuggled into my neck, his breathing labored. I told him he didn't have to wait for Dr. Bruce to come and he could go at any time. We stayed like that for another 30 minutes and then he stretched and went back to the foot of my bed.

Dr. Bruce Passamani, the vet, called at 8:00 and said he'd be over between 11:30 and 12:00. I decided to leave the bed and shower, etc. Shirley Warner arrived with white roses and a fabulous "kitty card." She gave Yoda many hugs. My physician's assistant friend, Sigrid, arrived and spent time with both us. Ammi arrived with a fantastic framed photo of me and Yoda. My neighbor Anita, her daughter Chloe and their dog Rowdy all dropped by to hang out.

By now, Yoda was feeling social and leaped off the bed and went outside to sit in his chair! We followed suit and sat around the picnic table recalling Yoda stories. "Remember the time Yoda....." He got many hugs and scratches from "the Aunties"; he loved being the center of attention.

Dr. Bruce arrived at 12:15 and we needed to bring Yoda into the house so he could shave a bit of his leg for the injection. Sigrid took Yoda in her arms and carried him inside to the kitchen. She gave him to me and I held him as he got his shot.

I continued to hold him for about 40 minutes as we sobbed. Sigrid went outside and dug his resting place. I brought Yoda to my bed where I had some alone time. I cut the pant leg of an old pair of warm-up pants and surrounded Yoda with them. "The Aunties" each spent time with him before we carried him outside. We laid him on a bed of sunflowers and said some prayers. We covered him and then planted a hydrangea plant on the top. The Aunties remained with me as other friends came by all afternoon. Ammi sent out for California Pizza and stayed with me until late in the evening.

The next morning my friends Jack & Susan came over with a darling Terra Cotta-colored granite statue of a sly kitty lounging on a stack of books! Jack placed it close to Yoda and said some lovely Buddha prayers. They told me that the Buddhists pray for 44 days and do "merits" for the departed's soul (similar to random acts of kindness).

Friends, it's been magical. I saw Yoda run across the room a few days ago and that night I dreamed a small black kitty with a little white spot under his neck ran down a long hall and jumped onto my lap!

I'm off to the Cape in 10 days to attend my 10th high school reunion (gawd, how time flies). When I return, my new kitty will be waiting for our next adventure.

As I read this, I hope it isn't TMI (Too Much Info).....I do tend to wax poetic....

Love to you,

Lainerz
“Friendship doubles our joy and divides our grief."

NOTE FROM INA: This story touches my heart, as Yoda was dear to me personally as well, and I feel so keenly for his human, my good friend. I would like to say to anyone out there reading this that I believe Elaine couldn't have come up with a better way to say good-bye to a loved one. As hard as it is when one of our furry friends is so close to the end, perhaps her example could serve us to help usher our own dear friends into the next stage of being.
 

Casey
1996-2006

Early this morning, Friday, 3/10/2006, Casey passed onto a better life. I can see her running, barking, playing, and eating to her delight in doggie heaven. I am thankful that she is in a better place and now has her physical capabilities back.

Stephanie, Joey and I will really miss her. She has been with us for 12 years, so just like a member of our family. Joey was 7 and Stephanie was 12 when she joined our family on Easter. I will miss my walking buddy in the morning - she so loved those walks, and she certainly got me engaged and committed to this as an exercise. She was such a sweet, caring, and fun-loving dog. It's pretty funny to see a 12 year-old dog chasing her tail!

Joe came home from school last night, so all three of us could be with her. And Tom was here and provided such great support for all of us. Early this morning I prayed for her to find peace, and now she is there. We feel very blessed to have shared these 12 years with Casey.

Attached are a few favorite pictures of our wonderful, crazy Casey. We love her and will keep her memories in our hearts.

Laura, Stephanie and Joey
 

Hunter
1983 (approx.) - April, 2006
In Memorium

My brother’s cat died early this morning. It was about 20 years ago that Hunter appeared on Dave’s doorstep, a stray black cat who proudly announced he had chosen my brother’s for his adopted family. Hunter was named for a hockey player who fought all the time and he lived up to his new name. As anyone who’s had a cat or dog or pet has experienced, Hunter increasingly became a vibrant part of the family. He lived in three different houses with them, was around for the birth of my niece and waited for Dave every night as he came home from the newspaper, often past midnight. They would sit together, watching TV, eating. Hunter had opinions on everything; he seemed to have an inner sense of taste and common sense. Once, when Paris Hilton was on TV, he turned to Dave with a look that suggested “what the heck is she supposed to be.”

Hunter had the usual habits. He got a piece of fish every Friday, and would mooch off any visitors that came by, but yet he was his own cat. I always likened him to Steve McQueen, the essence of cool, maybe with a little bit of Bogart’s cynicism. My niece would scoop him up in her tiny arms, barely able to hold him and he didn’t struggle. Although his look suggested he’d rather be somewhere else, his patience wouldn’t give out. Except one time, when he’d had enough of her hugging, he swung and hit her on the jaw with a solid right paw that had been declawed years before. Rica let him go, turned in shock and said, “Hunter punched me.” There was even a little red mark for a few moments.

Hunter also had his favorites when it came to music and movies. Of course he liked Cat Stevens, but he was drawn to country singer Kasey Chambers lately and Texas songbird Patty Griffin. Movies were his love, the usual ones, “Cat on a Hot Tin Roof,” “Cat People” (the original not the remake), “The Aristocats,” “Harry and Tonto,” “That Darn Cat.”

Hunter went through many illnesses and used his nine lives as well as one could hope for. He had leukemia and Dave and I managed to find the money for his special treatment. Dave used to take him to Dr. Barabbas, a human doctor who moonlighted as a veterinarian. I always said it was better to have a human doctor treating animals than the other way around.

Hunter loved the cold, crisp winter air of Calgary, and he would go out to patrol the yard and check on things. He never really wandered anywhere else. He got along well with the other cat in the house, Duchess, a white and black cat, much younger, less world-weary, but he understood that and gave her space. While Duchess stalked birds, Hunter sat back with a look that suggested he’d long outgrown that kind of thing and grown into a more philosophical view on life.

As I get older, any death seems to affect me more strongly, most likely a reaction to the mortality that I and my generation face now that we are running towards our 60’s. As Hunter aged, he had many of the same problems as old people do. Dave called once to say Hunter had done a hat trick, 3 “goals”: he threw up, urinated and pooped all in the same place. Recently he had been to the vet’s and refused to let them take tests, and even at his age, fought them until they finally gave up. Hunter himself was not one to give up.

Last night Dave and I talked for a long time, realizing that the time was near. Hunter was finally succumbing to his age. Experts say cats don’t usually die peacefully for some reason, their deaths are often violent and frightening to humans and they mostly die alone when not put to sleep. But this time, Hunter went peacefully, a testament to his life-long character, the essence of cool. Steve would have approved.

Last year I lost a dear friend, Morrie, who was 93 years old. Like Hunter, he was a tough guy, street smart and on top of his game. Both he and Hunter gave me a great sense of life and persistence and I miss them both.

Doctors estimated Hunter at around 23 years old, in human years around 106.

Jim Makichuk
 

Our beloved cat, Earl Grey, passed away November 26,2007, at home peacefully due to kidney failure. He was almost 20 years old.

We were very lucky that he adopted us many years ago and he was a delight, friendly to all, and will be greatly missed.

Dr. Baum of Center Sinai Animal Hospital kept him in good shape, even through his kidney problems, so much longer than anyone could have asked.

Dr. Baum and the staff at the hospital have always been so supportive and could not have been more caring and helpful in Earl Grey's last days.

I have been witness to so many miracles from Dr. Baum with a few of my cats over the years (approximately 27 years), and am always amazed at his positive attitude and compassion, not only the animals but also with the pet owners.

Endless thanks to Dr. Baum and staff.

Margaret Cox & Al Schepps
 

Hallie, Our Beloved
By Elizabeth Humphreys Fisher

Can she have been gone for five whole days?  It seems like only yesterday that she was sleeping at my feet, one ear cocked in her constant vigil.  Tonight, I need the solace of other human beings who can understand how little language offers us to express the loss of a beloved dog.  All day long, I've stumbled over thoughts that have been normal for me for so many years.... must let Hallie out... must let Hallie in... and, petting the cat, catching myself murmuring, "Ah, sweet baby puppy... I mean... "  This very picture that I've sent you, the one in which she is gazing at me with the big eyes, wondering if this camera will have the dreaded flashbulb, it wrenches my heart.  I can almost reach out and touch her.  My mind is intimately acquainted with the sweet velvet of her forehead, her soft ears, and all the places she loved to be petted... along her neck and across her tired old shoulders, slowly down her back... and she stretches and leans against me as my hands stroke her sides and burrow into her luxurious coat... oops, a gumball... dratted gumball trees are the bane of a dog's existence... must fix that, rake the yard where she likes to play. 

Just before I'm overwhelmed with the grief, a tiny triumphant glimmer of a thought darts past, left over from among the accolades laid at my feet by those who knew Hallie and who knew us --- "Hard to believe she's twelve..." the young vet tech said, last time we left her overnight at her favorite place to stay, if there could be anywhere she's content to be when we're away, "Why, she's as active as a puppy.  She's off like a shot when we throw the ball... You sure she's that old?"  

Yes, I'm sure.  She was just a baby when I found her --- at a mall pet shop, so probably from a puppy mill, or, more likely, a farm around our area.  I'd never seen such a beautiful puppy in my life.  Being entirely unfamiliar with the blue merle coloring, I was stunned by her beauty.  She was soft and responsive, and she reached up to me, her fat little paws sensitive as no dog's in my experience ever had been.  I picked her up out of the crateful of stumbling babies, and held her close, amazed that she put her arms around my neck and hugged me, curling her feet and hanging onto me, as if to say, "Mama, you're here... hold me..."  Our life together from that moment was an extension of the beginning, those first touches, tentative on my part, enthusiastic on hers, commencing a dance that would last twelve years --- and no more.  Had I known the grief I feel tonight, would I have held her so close that day?  Oh, yes!  Yes, I would!  For, what is life without love, and who knows better how to love than a puppy?  Who knows better how to love than a good old dog to whom you have these many years been the sun, the moon, and the stars? Such a tiny inch of life is given them, these dogs who claim our hearts.

This past year, Hallie developed cancer of the jaw, and her long, lovely back was arthritic, so the hugs were from me to her, as she stood and I leaned over to her.  Surgery saved her from the horrors of oral cancer, but took one-third of her lower jaw, so that she had difficulty keeping her tongue placed well back in her mouth.  Yet, to her family she was as beautiful as ever.  "Beautiful Hallie, our beautiful, beautiful girl... How pretty you are, darling" I would murmur.  Her tail, for she was one of the few Australian Shepherds to have been given a tail, would wag slowly then, and I was never sure she was still convinced that she was beautiful, but a soft toy always tended to change the subject, and like a child's, her enthusiasm would increase.  As the spinal discs degenerated gradually, Hallie no longer seemed interested in chasing after a toy, so we made things easier for her --- tactfully, because she could sense every nuance, and she took great pride in her agility. 

Then, at last, came the terrible night when she could not stand up, and her breath came in ragged gasps.  It had been just one week since the last episode exactly like this one.  We gave her a cortisone tablet, which she took obediently, as she had lived obediently.  Cooperation was her creed, and she would stagger and fall, had we let her, to obey the wish of her master and mistress.  The hour was late when we felt that her breathing was quieter, and she would sleep the rest of the night through.  Surely, it was her back... But, it wasn't just her back this time.  Near my bed, she lapped water now and then through the night, and in our ignorance, we thought this was a good sign.  I kissed her, lay beside her for awhile.  She licked my hand slowly, a moment only.  By dawn, we knew things were much worse than a week before.  My strong young son, who had grown up with this wonderful dog, gathered her into his arms, and we took her to the emergency veterinary clinic.  Technicians met us with a rolling emergency table, their faces grim.  Then everything seemed to be happening at once... Hallie was bundled into a room, and while we paced the floor and prayed, the voices grew hushed, and then the doctor came out, and one look told us what we did not want to know. 

"I'm so sorry... it probably... I believe surely... was a blood clot...  there was nothing you could do... it was too late... she's gone... I'm so very sorry.  Please, don't hold yourselves to blame... all of us blame ourselves, but there was nothing you did that caused this..." 

From a tunnel a long way away, someone was talking, "... a blood clot... recent surgery... knew she was loved... obvious... so sorry...no charge... stay with her as long as you like..."  The door closed then, and we were left alone with our baby, and she was so still... growing cold... my son and I held each other and sobbed, and ached, and didn't try to talk.

We're getting cards every day now from the veterinarians here who had tended her for the past year --- Must be a network, because they all know that Hallie is gone... And, every one of the cards has the same poem, "The Rainbow Bridge."  The poem, itself, will never make it to any hall of literary fame, but the thoughts are right on.  I ponder to God, in my heart, beyond prayer and into the Question, "Is there a rainbow bridge?  Do all dogs go to Heaven?  Will I ever see them again, the precious spirits who came to me in fur and left in my flood of tears?"  God smiles, tips my chin up like a child's, and I feel the warmth of His love for His creation, for me, for all of us who carry out the task of dominion over the little ones. 

I've taught my children that the animals are, in a sense, our perpetual "little ones," and that, although their understanding is somewhere on the order of a four or five year old child's, they have a wisdom we cannot know, and that this wisdom is put in their hearts by the Creator.  Some might call it "instinct," some might even be so crass as to call it mere reflex.  But, it is wisdom, it is love, and wisdom springs from the spirit, does it not?  Love empowers one to sacrifice for the beloved.  No reflex there.  Neurologists tell us that the brain centers that control the emotion of love are similar in dogs and humans, a natural compatibility that has long benefited both species.  Surely, love is God-breathed in the soul of humankind and the great heart of a dog.  We clasp a little puppy in our arms, knowing that someday she will break our hearts, and in the final analysis we give her back to God too soon, but we keep all that she was and all that she had to give... forever.

My precious Hallie, I will see you again... I love you, John and Daddy love you... now, darling, you must go and play...

Mama
© 2008 Elizabeth Fisher. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved by the author.
Ms. Fisher is a professional writer, amateur photographer, and former journalism professor.
 

NOTE: What you will read below is excerpted from an article written by Pam Vetter, a journalist who also works with families of celebrities and the rest of us folk to conduct one of a kind final services.

The gist of the story here is that Flo decided to donate Freddie's body to science to help further cancer research, and Vetter quotes veterinarians on issues potential donors might want to weigh in considering this option. Scroll down to the end of this piece for a link to the entire article.

* * *

Pet owner Flo Selfman, Public Relations Consultant in Los Angeles, remembers the path that led her to make the decision of donating her cat's body to veterinary science.

"I adopted Freddie from Pet Pride shelter in West Los Angeles. He was about two years old. He was a perfect, wonderful cat, one of those 'soul mate' animals. He was a short-haired tabby with tiger markings on his face and four white paws on long legs," Selfman said. "One Saturday in July 1997, I had been out all day. When I returned about 4:30, I heard an ungodly moaning from my bedroom closet. It was Freddie, and I had no idea what was wrong with him. I rushed him to the emergency vet. They kept him overnight, rehydrated him, x-rayed him, and recommended that I have ultra-sound."

An ultrasound revealed diffused liver cancer and Selfman faced choices.

"I took him to a cancer specialist -- a wonderful woman named Dr. Sue Downing, now at ACC & IM in Culver City. She did not recommend chemotherapy (which I could not have afforded), so I took Freddie to a holistic vet, Dr. Marc Bittan, in West Los Angeles. He recommended various things, including milk thistle, which Freddie could not keep down so I couldn't give it to him; shark cartilage, which I could not afford; and some other stuff including Pepcid. Yes, 'people' Pepcid, ¼ tablet. Thus began a year and a half nightmare. Some doctors suggested I put Freddie down, but I didn't think it was time, as I know he still had some quality of life. When he couldn't climb over the step to the litter, I rigged up a litter pan on the bathroom floor by putting litter in a jellyroll pan. I kept a dish of water near my bed so he wouldn't have to go all the way to the kitchen for water. I gave him baby food with a dab of liquid cat vitamins. And so it went. I did have to have him rehydrated a couple of times, and learned to do it myself. After about a year of this, I thought, 'This has to mean something.' After all, he had a particular kind of cancer, being treated a certain way, with the holistic vet." Selfman remembered, "Then I thought about my parents, who had willed their bodies to USC Medical School."

Selfman thought maybe she could do the same thing with Freddie's body and began to research the option.

"Eventually I was led to UC Davis. I knew they had a fine vet school, and discovered that they had a Memorial Donation Program, plus various other services for people losing their pets, including classes and workshops, grief recovery, etc. I was assigned a third-year vet student, Pam Wittenberg from the Student Animal Welfare Committee, and we talked about what I wanted. I didn't want to just donate his body for cutting practice. Because he had a specific medical condition, and was treated a specific way, I thought they could learn something special from that. Freddie's liver/tumor grew throughout this time; I used to call it his 'grapefruit.' Breaks my heart to think about it. Maybe I should have put him down, but I just couldn't," Selfman explained. "I made arrangements with two different vets: my regular vet in West Los Angeles, if Freddie died during their regular hours; and their Los Angeles branch, if he died over the weekend. The deal was, I would bring the body in and they would keep it on ice until the vet students from UC Davis would actually drive down and pick it up."

At the age of 13, Freddie died on February 6, 1999.

"At the end of the school term, I and other donors received a form letter from UC Davis expressing appreciation for the donation. The letter also said that, if I wanted to know specifically how my animal's body was utilized, to let them know. I did want to know, and I received a second letter explaining it. Freddie's care cost me several thousand dollars over the year and a half. I have a receipt labeled 'care of deceased' from the regular vet for $20.00, so that's what they charged me to keep the remains until UC Davis picked it up." Selfman added, "I sent notes and calls to all my 'cat' friends. What I found absolutely amazing was the number of cards and calls of condolence. While I loved them, I can say that I didn't receive a fraction of these expressions when either of my parents died! I guess people find it easier to express deep emotion over an animal than over a human."

Reprinted with permission from Pam Vetter and Flo Selfman.

To find out more about donating a pet's body for the purpose of scientific research in disease prevention and treatment,  http://www.americanchronicle.com/articles/65768
 

Do you have a story and/or photo of having lost a pet that you'd like to share?  You can send it to us here, as did the Steele family and others above.  To send a photo see directions below:

Photos and text © 2004 Ina Hillebrandt