John

Poof

Poof was born somewhere around May 1, 1985, just south of Sedalia Missouri, spending the first weeks of her life living under a mobile home. For the first few years of her life, she lived in nearby Green Ridge Missouri. Poof's favorite spot was the very center of the bed, and her favorite toy was a toy mouse. A few years later, we moved to Sedalia Missouri, where she lived out her days, I like to think, basically spoiled rotten.

Despite what some may have thought, Poof was never named because either of us was "gay". She was named initially after several earlier pets, secondarily after a Frank Zappa tune, and primarily because she was my little white explosion, like the small "poof" you'd see whenever the Coyote chased the Roadrunner and fell off a cliff.

I know a million stories about Poof, all locked into my memory forever. Every square inch of every place she lived held some memory. I hope I gave Poof as happy a life as possible. In the end, veterinarians who didn't really know what was going on with feline diabetes, and my own slowness to learn, made it impossible for Poof to go on. Poof went to the Rainbow Bridge, November 2, 2000, at 15 years and 6 months old.

I always knew I'd be sad about losing Poof, but I was genuinely shocked at the depth of pain I felt when she was gone. Every furkid I care for, for as long as I'm stuck on this demented slaughterhouse of a world, I love and care for to honor the love I had for Poof. Everything Poof taught me, I pass along to the next furkid who needs me, or the next person who's lost their own pet.

What Poof Taught Me

Why do I feel so guilty? When we lose our pet, furkid, featherkid, finkid, or whatever they may be, we take all their pain onto ourselves so they don't suffer it anymore. You might not think about it, but our pets don't want to leave us any more than we want them to leave. Sadly, there comes the point when they just can't be with us any longer, and in releasing them, we take all their pain, including their guilt about leaving us, onto ourselves. Our gift to them, is taking away their pain and guilt. Well, all that pain and guilt has to go somewhere...so we get it.

But I feel guilty because it really is my fault! None of us can see into the future. None of us are omniscient. If we could see into the future or knew and saw everything, there would be no accidents. If we could do all that, our pets could never hide their pain or sickness from us, and nothing could ever hurt them. How many of us are equipped to test their foods for poisoning, or get our streets blocked off? How many of us can be where we need to be and with our pets simultaneously? How many of us can be awake and attentive 24 hours every day, fight gravity, reverse aging, prevent cancers, heal with just a touch, invent new cures or spend infinite amounts of money? No matter how much we love, no matter how hard we try, how attentive and vigilant we may be, it's simply not a perfect world, and sad and painful things will happen despite our very best efforts. The guilt you inevitably feel, is the guilt our pets have at leaving us, not because of an accident.

Did I let them go too soon, or wait too long? I'm firmly convinced that we can't possibly let them go one day too soon or one day too late. None of our pets want to leave just because they may be suffering to some degree. They really do want to stay with us. There just finally comes a point at which they can't go on, and we love them enough to understand this, and therefore we don't let them go too late. At the same time we don't want to see them suffer, but we don't want to lose them either. Releasing them is not a thing we do lightly or easily, but only after agonizing over the question. Therefore, we don't let them go too early. The desire to keep our pets with us is equally balanced by our love and compassion for their suffering. The balance means we always let them go at exactly the right time.

I saved all their toys and things. How crazy is that? Save everything. Anything you throw away will be gone forever. Toys, bowls, blankets, collars, beds, I even saved a litter box. I've even saved tufts of hair and claws I found stuck in the carpet. Of course, save those pictures, even if they're too hard to look at at the moment. Any pictures you have, scan them off into a computer, then copy them onto at least 2 flash drives, so that come fire, flood, or mechanical failure, you'll always have them with you

I don't think I can get another. When we lose a pet, we're naturally reluctant to risk going through that pain again, or we may feel disloyal to our lost pet if we try "replacing" them. When I lost Poof I never wanted to hurt like that again, but then I met Monster, and I realized that her life would probably short and miserable if I didn't intervene. I was suddenly willing to risk that pain again, if it meant that she didn't have to suffer. I also realized that I wasn't even trying to replace Poof. I was passing along what I learned from her, and I figured she fully expected me not to waste all that she taught me.

I'm not sure I can, or want to live through this. Losing a pet can feel like something beyond pain, and something you can never get through. There may even be the temptation to join your pet at the Rainbow Bridge immediately. 3 things make this unnecessary however. One, is that over time, as impossible as it may be to believe, and as long as it may seem to take, your pain will change. You will always miss your pet, but the happier memories will gradually crowd out the sadder ones, and you can begin to function again. 2, is that if your pet is at the Rainbow Bridge, they're no longer suffering, but there are plenty of animals still here with us who desperately need your help. Without it, they may lead short lives of pain and misery. With your help, these same animals can live out their lives happy and carefree, if not spoiled rotten. 3, is that the best we can hope for is 120 years or so here on Earth anyway, and you'll join your pet at the Bridge soon enough as it is. Might as well take care of as many animals as you can while you're here. In some of my depressed moments I've tried to remember, hey, I can't live forever. It'll all be over soon enough. In the meantime, I've got furkids to take care of.

What can I do to help me get over this? A lot of people will disagree with me about this, but there's nothing so effective as taking care of another pet. You'll be busy trying to make them happy and you'll feel much better if you know you're doing it as a way not to replace, but to honor your lost pet. If you really don't think this is a good idea, or if for some reason it's not possible, talking with others who understand on Petloss.com can also help enormously.

A lot of people try scrapbooking, pasting pictures and stories together, and it always seems to help. I kind of did the same thing by computer. Write down every memory you have. You'll never forget anything about your pet, but those memories are really ingrained if you write them down. Scan any pictures you have onto your computer, and save them again onto at least 2 flash drives. Chances of your computer and 2 flash drives failing at once are pretty slim. Maybe do a webpage for your pet

How long will it be before I feel better? Getting through the pain of grief is like watching the hour hand on a clock. It's so slow you can't tell anything is changing at all. But it does. Your heart may feel irreparably broken for weeks, or months, but very gradually, impossible as it may seem, the happier memories come trickling back, and while there are those who may disagree, I can tell you with supreme confidence, that occupying yourself with caring for another pet will speed up the process unbelievably.

But I can't have pets. Maybe you have to spend too much time away from home. Maybe you live with someone who won't let you have another pet. Maybe you have one of those ass hole landlords who won't let you have another pet. Maybe you're going to school somewhere, or don't feel your pet would be safe where you live. Or maybe you just can't function through your grief enough to confidently care for another pet. If for whatever reason, you can't keep another pet after losing one, you can still make some poor furkid happy, and probably save their life. You can make contributions to organizations like the ASPCA, or to a no-kill shelter like Best Friends in Kanab Utah. If money comes tight, as it does for me, you can volunteer at shelters or for other volunteer groups. There's always some way you can help out, and probably be with other furkids, at least part of the day.

I've lost family members, and it didn't hurt this bad. How can that be? A lot of people don't see it this way, but your pet is a family member. If you have trouble looking at it that way, think of how much your pet needed you, depended on you, trusted you, and loved you. Most of our "human" family members may fall into one or 2 of those categories, but rarely all of them. We can love our "human" family members dearly, but with pets, there is often that special difference. We tend to have the deepest love for those who need us most, and that may not always be Dad, or uncle Bob, or cousin Sue.

My friends and family don't understand. You can feel really alone if your friends and family don't seem to understand. One of the dumbest things anyone can say is, "It's just an animal. Get over it." They'll be telling you you "need to do this" and you "need to do that". You find out pretty quickly whether it'll do any good to talk to them. This may sound harsh, but it's the hard truth that most people don't have the depth of love and compassion that we have. They may think it's "just" a dog, cat, bird, etc. but if you have any real depth, they're family, and if they have the capacity to think beyond their fingertips, they'll understand this. Even our pets may have more depth than some of our friends and family members. That's why it helps so much to talk to people on Petloss or similar websites. We understand. We have depth.

Why can't I have "dream visits"? I've known of a lot of people who have had "visits" from their pets. Sometimes it's a familiar noise they used to make, or something inexplicably knocked off a table, pets interacting with someone who doesn't seem to be there, etc. Sometimes they come in dreams, usually as happy, healthy pets again. Not everyone receives these "visits" and so much wish they could. For me though, Poof was all white, and sometimes in the dark I'd see her. Then I'd get closer and she would turn into a bleach jug or a towel or something. There seemed to be a sort of "look but don't touch" rule. At that point though, all I wanted to do was walk over and pick her up and love on her again, and the disappointment was terrible when it turned out not to be her. I sometimes think that Poof realized that these "visits" were hurting more than helping, and stopped making them for my sake.

It may be that a "visit" might affect you the same way. Maybe your pet is doing you a favor, just hovering nearby, but not aggravating your disappointment at not being able to hold them again. Then again, your pet may be working up to a "visit" sometime, some day. Who knows?

But I'm an atheist. How do I get through this? Join the club. When I look around and see all the unnecessary pain in the world, it's impossible for me to honestly believe that there's anybody with compassion up there running or guiding anything. If there is some big plan, it really isn't a very good one. Or maybe there's somebody up there who'd like to, but can't do anything about it until we get where we're going. Of course if there is anyone in charge, and with any sense of love or compassion, there will be a Rainbow Bridge, and there will be our furkids waiting to meet us before we cross over. But whether there is or is not, our furkids are still beyond any pain and suffering, and someday, after we've shared all the love and caring we can down here, we will be too.

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