kaitmpayne wrote:

“I’ve never had a child who has passed away, but I can’t even imagine how big of a slap in the face it is when people compare their dead dog to losing a child when you’ve actually had that happen. Your dog is not a human. You are not a parent. Stop. Just stop.”

Let me start this off with the fact that I love the writer of this post. I just simply have a different outlook on this situation that I wanted to share. In fact, I commented to her that “I definitely see what you’re saying, but people don’t all handle things the same. I am sure some people are attached to animals like family members. We can’t determine if that kind of mothering doesn’t feel the same to them as ‘real mothering.’”

mybeautifulbears backed up my feelings by saying, “I dont think that because a dog isn’t human it should be less worthy. I don’t have children but my dog is looked after as if it were my child, if he passed I would be distraught regardless of him not being human…”

A lot of other responses included the cringe-worthy statement of “AT LEAST YOU CAN REPLACE A DOG.” Clearly, these aren’t animal lovers or people who are open to closeness with a pet. I have never been able to replace my first dog, Zoë, and we now have three new dogs in our lives. It’s never the same. I love my new dogs SO MUCH, but they aren’t Zoë. And the dog that comes after my Káva will never replace her. We pet owners would never tell you to just have or adopt a new kid. These beings, human or otherwise, aren’t replaceable. 

Sometimes, I think about when Káva will die, and I just start crying. I get very anxious and panicked. She is such a huge part of my every day life and love, and the thought of losing her makes me feel lost and sick, and I just start welling up with tears. Are those not valid feelings just because my “child” is a different species from me?

The worst thing I’ve ever experienced was having to euthanize Zoë after she lost her battle with cancer. At first, we didn’t know why she was falling down and losing her breath. Vets weren’t sure at first either, and she couldn’t tell us how she felt. I loathed seeing her have to go through failed tests while locked away in a place she hates by doctors she was afraid of. Once we found a vet who knew what was going on, she had surgery removing her spleen. It didn’t help because the cancer had already spread to her other organs. After her surgery, I’d lie with her in the front yard, and we would just sleep. It was so hard watching her, the best friend and sister she was since I was 9, collapse again because of the internal bleeding from burst tumors. Watching her gasp for air and she lay helpless on the ground. Having to make the decision to take her life away to spare her the pain. Feeling her head become heavy in my arms as she lay lifeless with me on the ground after the injection. Having to leave her sunken body there after lying with her for an hour, sobbing. Leaving her with strangers to make her into ashes.

And it didn’t end with the day she died. I kept imagining I could hear her around the house. It was heartbreaking every time I remembered the truth. I couldn’t go to my mom’s house for months afterwards because I couldn’t deal with the fact that she wouldn’t be there to greet me. Three and a half years later, I find myself bawling while writing this. It is still a fresh wound.

So, please, if you lose a child, and someone shares with you a vulnerable anecdote about when they lost a pet, don’t take it as an insult. They’ve just shared a very painful event with you, whether you agree or not.

I would never belittle someone who has experienced a loss of any kind — especially when they’re trying to open themselves to empathize with you.