I Haven’t Always Known How To Say Goodbye

That's difficult for me to admit.

But it's true.

When I was a child, I didn't have the understanding of animals that I have today.

I was taught, directly and indirectly, that animals didn't have the same rights we did.

They didn't need the same consideration.

They didn't experience things the way humans did.

They were...

well...

"just animals."

The first dog I remember was a German Shepherd named Gretchen.

I remember her getting old.

And then one day...

she simply wasn't there anymore.

No explanation.

No goodbye.

No ceremony.

Just...

gone.

My parents weren't emotionally available people.

There were many things about emotions, grief, love, and loss that I had to figure out on my own as I grew older.

How to say goodbye to an animal was one of them.

And I didn't always do it well.

There were beloved animals I took to the veterinarian at the end of their lives...

and left.

There were others I asked my husband to take because I couldn't bear to go.

At the time, I think I believed I couldn't handle watching them die.

I loved them.

That was never the question.

But I didn't understand that being present for their death could be part of loving them too.

So I protected myself from the part I couldn't face.

I left.

I'm not proud of that.

There are things I would do differently today.

But I also have compassion for the woman I was then.

She didn't know yet.

Eventually, life began teaching me.

I remember the first time I stayed while a veterinarian administered the medication.

It was awful.

I cried like a baby.

Every part of me wanted death to be something other than what it was.

Then came Hermes.

My beautiful black alpaca.

Hermes had been sick for years.

I had fought so hard to save him.

Treatment after treatment.

Test after test.

I kept believing there had to be something else I could do.

Eventually, there wasn't.

When Hermes died, I lay beside him in the barn and cried.

And cried.

And cried.

Something happened that day that I will never forget.

The other alpacas came to him.

One by one, they said goodbye.

I watched them acknowledge what had happened in their own way.

There was no pretending.

No hiding death.

No rushing past it because it hurt too much.

They simply came.

They knew.

And they said goodbye.

I held my sweet boy while the veterinarian administered the medication.

I felt his body become still in my arms.

It broke my heart.

But this time...

I stayed.

Years later, when Milly was preparing to leave, everything was different.

By then, I had learned to communicate with animals.

And Milly told me what she wanted.

She wanted to be in the pasture with her herd.

She didn't want to reach the point where she was struggling to breathe.

She wanted my help before that happened.

And somehow...

when the day came...

I knew.

I spent hours with her before the veterinarian arrived.

I held her.

I talked to her.

I cried.

Of course I cried.

But I wasn't trying to escape what was happening anymore.

I was there.

We laid her on a beautiful blanket.

There were flowers.

Candles.

Soft music.

Her pasture.

Her herd.

Her home.

And me.

When the veterinarian administered the medication, I held her.

And then something happened that I don't know how to explain in any other way.

I felt her leave her body.

I felt Milly's soul leave.

I was heartbroken.

But I wasn't afraid.

It was one of the saddest moments of my life...

and somehow, one of the most beautiful.

What My Animals Taught Me About Goodbye

When I look back over all of these deaths, I can see how much I've changed.

Gretchen disappeared.

With some of my animals, I left.

With Hermes, I stayed.

With Milly...

I participated.

Not in her death.

In her transition.

That's a very different thing to me now.

I wish I could go back and give my younger self what I know today.

I wish I could sit beside her and tell her:

You don't have to run.

You can survive this.

You can cry.

You can fall apart.

You can hold them while they leave.

Death isn't something you have to protect yourself from.

But I can't go back.

And I've had to make peace with that too.

Because one of the deepest things my animals have taught me is that they understand far more than I once believed they did.

I believe our animals know when their bodies are changing.

I believe they understand death differently than we do.

And through the communications I've had with animals both living and in Spirit, I've come to believe something that has brought me enormous peace:

They understand us, too.

They know our hearts.

They know our limitations.

They know when we're frightened.

They know when we're trying.

And I don't believe the animals I wasn't able to stay with left this world angry with me because I couldn't do then what I can do now.

That's important.

Because I could punish myself for those choices.

I could look backward with everything I know today and judge the woman who didn't know it yet.

But what would that teach me?

My animals have never asked me to do that.

Instead, each one seems to have helped prepare me for the next.

Gretchen taught the little girl who didn't understand.

Other animals taught the young woman who couldn't stay.

Hermes taught me that I could remain beside someone I loved even when I couldn't save him.

And Milly taught me that death could be held with intention, dignity, beauty, and love.

They taught me how to stay.

And maybe that is how I process an animal's passing now.

I stay.

I don't pretend it doesn't hurt.

I don't try to spiritualize my way around the grief.

I cry.

Sometimes I cry so hard I can barely breathe.

I hold them.

I talk to them.

I listen.

I honor what their body needs.

I honor what they're telling me.

And when the time comes, I try to make their transition about them, rather than about my fear of losing them.

Because I no longer believe death is the moment our relationship ends.

I believe it is the moment the relationship changes.

I believe our animals are with us while they're living.

They're with us while they're dying.

And they're with us after they've left their bodies.

The love doesn't disappear.

The relationship doesn't become meaningless.

And everything they taught us doesn't suddenly vanish because we can no longer reach out and touch them.

I have also come to believe that our animals aren't keeping score of our mistakes.

They aren't sitting in Spirit thinking,

"You should have done this differently."

"You should have stayed."

"You should have known."

I believe they see the whole journey.

Perhaps much more clearly than we do.

And maybe the animals I once thought I failed were actually among the ones patiently teaching me how to become the woman who could someday lie beside Milly in a pasture...

hold her...

feel her soul leave...

and remain.

That's a difficult thought for me.

But it's also a beautiful one.

Maybe none of those goodbyes were wasted.

Maybe every one of them was teaching me how to love more consciously the next time.

You May Be Wondering...

What if I didn't handle my animal's passing the way I wish I had?

Please don't use what you know today as a weapon against the person you were then.

Maybe you weren't there.

Maybe you waited longer than you now wish you had.

Maybe you made the decision sooner than you would today.

Maybe you were afraid.

Maybe you couldn't bear to watch.

Maybe circumstances didn't allow the goodbye you wanted.

I can tell you what my own animals have taught me:

Love is much bigger than one final moment.

A lifetime together is not reduced to the way the last hour unfolded.

If there are things you wish you had done differently, let that knowledge change how you love now.

Let it make you more present.

More compassionate.

More willing to listen.

More willing to stay.

That's what I've chosen to do.

I can't change the goodbyes I had before I understood.

But I can honor those animals through the way I say goodbye today.

And perhaps that's one more gift they've given me.

They didn't only teach me how to live with animals.

They taught me how to walk beside them when it's time to leave.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.