Sympathy Cards for Pets

Write them with love.

Somewhere between
hello and goodbye,
there was love,
so much love.
—Anon.

When I was wee—I’m guessing first grade—our one and only chameleon died a violent death at the paws of our beloved family cat Marie. My trauma was threefold: first, it was the first time I’d personally witnessed Death; second, my cat, who I loved even more than the chameleon, had committed this murder most foul, brazenly and without remorse; and third, when a classmate asked me why I was crying, I was too embarrassed to answer. At some level even then, I knew the stigma of caring “too much” for a non-human.

These days, the notion that a pet loss could overwhelm so deeply is less of an oddity than it was a few decades ago. The cynic in me suspects that’s largely due to the growth in an industry once unmined but eventually seized upon by the same folks who figured out you could sell water. But whatever the motive, love or money, halleluiah for our species’ subsequent evolution as compassionate beings.

 In a New York Times article (April 2, 2023, by Karen Fine), a veterinarian noted that a client had once told her, “My parents died three weeks apart, but losing my dog was worse.”

I witnessed an occasion very similar to that client’s: When I gave my condolences to a friend who had lost his father a few weeks earlier, he and his wife nodded, and she said, “He was a good ol dog.”

Seeing the confusion on my face, he jumped in: “Oh, you meant my father. Yeah, thank you. We lost our dog just last week.” Maybe it was the times, maybe it was the people involved, but this time, unlike that day back when I was a child, we all laughed; what we understood without stating it overtly was that while the loss of his older, suffering father had of course been sad, the death of their dog—who’d romped and slept and ate with them hourly, who’d been a constant in their daily lives—had been devastating.

I wrote about sympathy cards last March, but given the nature of this kind of loss and the stigma that still remains for some people who deeply grieve the loss of their animal companions, I think a conversation about this sub-division warrants its own consideration. Please share how you have dealt with it, and how you have comforted loved ones when it happens to them.  

You can find a boatload of cards specifically for your pet—even more specifically your dog or your elderly cat or your snake. At this site you can find cards for “dog only,” “dogs and cats,” “equine,” “multipet / exotics.” You can select “euthanasia,” die-cut cards, or seeded cards you can plant.

But—as with general sympathy cards—after you’ve found the perfect one to send, what do you say on it? Even if your selection includes a beautiful quote, you still need to say something. It doesn’t need to be long, but your friend or family member will appreciate your personal note, if only to say that you are thinking of them.

In my March piece, I cited a friend who had left me a lovely message after one of my most dearly loved felines died. Her dispatch was singularly appropriate for someone suffering the loss of a non-human animal: She wrote that she found comfort knowing that it would be worse for our companions if they outlived us instead of the other way around, and that she hoped this would give me comfort.

Perhaps you, too, can find an idea that leans into the distinct differences between the human and nonhuman animals in your life. Lifespans, forms of communication, lineage, relationships with other non-human animals, peculiar habits or behaviors, qualities of being… these and other factors might lend themselves to words or ideas you can use to highlight rather than ignore the reasons that the loss of pets in our lives can sting even deeper than that of a fellow human being, even a deeply loved one.

“Her calm, statuesque presence in your home, draped across the mantle or perched on the piano, will live on in our memories.”

“I hope that as the pain eases you will come to remember his piercing howls of delight upon your return home and the cheer he spread with them.”

“I am thinking of you and Freckles at this time of adjustment for you both, and hope that fond memories soon take their place alongside your grief.”

For help finding your words, plenty of websites offer suggestions and advice. As soon as I opened The Gifted Tree, I decided I liked it, because the words of wisdom  that dominate its home page were uttered by my favorite philosopher:

“How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.”—Winnie the Pooh

A.A. Milne is long dead, and his book rights have no doubt long since expired—just ask Disney or, say, The Gifted Tree—so feel free to use that exact quote. I certainly shall tuck it away for future use, perhaps for my own self-care at some undetermined future date.

The site provides lots of suggested phrases like this one:

“At first, they need us, and then we need them. Wishing you comfort and peace during this difficult time.”

Some are a bit generic, a few reference an afterlife; there should be something there that feels right for you—or, better, inspires you to write your own.

Also here are pet loss quotes, including the one I cited at the top of this issue and this one by Erica Jong:

“Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love; they depart to teach us about loss. A new dog never replaces an old dog, it merely expands the heart. If you have loved many dogs, your heart is very big.”

Given the nature of this site, which promotes growth of trees, there also are options to plant a tree in the memory of your animal companion. Select a bunch of options for Memorial Trees, Celebration Trees, or Pet Loss Trees; you also can select a location from a global list of options.

Petal Talk, an online marketing newsletter for 1-800-Flowers.com, offers great ideas and quotes—not just for writing cards (and what not to say in them, like suggesting that your loved one get another dog/cat/chameleon to “replace” her lost friend), but for taking thoughtful actions, like suggesting the bereaved come join you on your dog walks.

“Listen actively,” a grief counselor advises in an article at this site. “Expect to hear the same story over and over again. Repeating is helpful for the griever and acts as a pain reliever. If something similar happened to you, share but don’t compare your experience, and do so only if asked.”

As with the earlier cited website, the suggested words for sympathy cards here are wide ranging, sometimes generic, and often useful as triggers to get you started. I like many on their own, like this one, because its assumption about the equality of your non-human animal to all other living things is implicit in its statement: “To lose a true friend is never easy. You’re in my thoughts during this difficult time.”

Straying a bit from this newsletter’s focus on crafting words well, many sites offer great resources for people grieving pet loss—and, by extension, folks who want to help them.

Outward Hound, which sells stuff, nevertheless offers great shill-free advice, including considerations on that special subset of grievers: children facing their first brush with death.

The Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement was founded in the late 1990s by a shrink who found that he was having trouble coping, despite his line of expertise. The site offers options to establish a memorial; resources including animal chaplains, information about euthanasia, and lots more; and a long menu of options under a support tab.

Lap of Love Veterinary Hospice & In-Home Euthanasia offers resources, some requiring payment, some free. Under the paid column is a six-week pet-loss course and one-on-one support; a free support group is also available here.

Finally, straying even further from the central focus of Well Worded is this site for my favorite people: vets.

Not One More Vet helps veterinarians cope with the high rate of suicidal depression suffered in that industry.

Our own vet wears a perpetually worried expression, a bit like the dachshund my father liked to recall from his boyhood, its little forehead chronically furrowed. I think—I hope—that Dr. Jones offsets her industry-associated tendencies to depression with her healthy, slightly dark sense of humor, which bubbles up frequently during even our saddest visits, including those during times of our own feline losses. (Here’s a shameless plug for local humans owned by cats who are seeking a vet: Cat Hospital of Wichita. I received nothing for this recommendation; I just really love them.)