How to Say Goodbye to a Very Good Dog
You may have seen this video online—a touching moment between an elderly chimpanzee named Mama and her caretaker. If you haven’t, I encourage you to take a look here. This relationship is central in Frans de Waal’s book Mama’s Last Hug, where he explores the emotional lives of animals in ways that might surprise you. In the video, Mama, near the end of her life, pulls her caretaker into an embrace that’s full of affection and recognition. It’s hard to watch without feeling something stir inside.
De Waal describes anthropodenial—the refusal to acknowledge that animals feel emotions the way we do—but if you’ve ever loved and lost a dog, you already know this denial is impossible. For those of us who have experienced that bond, the grief that follows is raw and brutal.
The grief we feel when our pets pass is every bit as real as the grief for a human family member. For those of us with unconventional families—like my close friends, a gay couple who raised a dog as their own—the loss can hit harder than many realise. In a society that doesn’t always acknowledge or understand these bonds, this grief can feel invisible.
Disenfranchised Grief and Compounded Loss
When we see someone crying uncontrollably, our first thought is often that they’ve lost a human loved one. Rarely do we imagine they’re grieving a pet. This is disenfranchised grief—grief that society tends to overlook or dismiss. It can leave you feeling isolated, as though your pain doesn’t count.
What makes this grief even harder is that pet loss is often a form of compounded grief. One of the great ironies of losing a pet is that they are the companions who would have helped us bear the pain of other significant losses. Without them, we’re left to mourn not only their absence but also the memories they helped us survive—whether it’s the death of a parent or the end of a relationship. Losing a pet can unravel layers of past grief, leaving us raw and vulnerable.
When to Let Go: The Agony of Anticipatory Loss
When my miniature schnauzer, Pepper, grew sick after a decade together, I was faced with the hardest decision of my life—when to let her go. The vet gently brought up the possibility of euthanasia, and I remember feeling a deep, chilling rupture inside me. How do I say good bye? How could I know when it was the right time?
I created a list of the things that brought Pepper joy—24 specific moments that defined her happiness. Our tug-of-war game after her baths, her little spin dance at dinnertime, her playful obsession with a torn green monster toy. As the days went by, I watched each joyful thing on that list disappear. When she no longer wanted to eat or go for walks—the last joy on the list—I knew it was time.
After the procedure, when the blue lethal injection finally stopped her heart, I held her soft body and was overcome by a grief so deep that the sound of my own howling didn’t feel like mine. It was raw, guttural, primal—an emptiness that hit me harder than I ever imagined.
The Weight of Her Absence
The weeks that followed were filled with a strange heaviness. I’d come home and still expect to see Pepper’s wagging tail at the door. I’d wake up at night, convinced I could hear her tiny paws tapping across the wooden floor. For a fleeting second, my heart was convinced she was still with me, but then reality tightened its grip, yanking me back to the painful truth. That micro-moment—the split second of belief before the crushing realization—is something many who have lost a pet can attest to. The mind plays tricks, but the pain remains.
Grief and Performance: A Moment of Duality
There was one evening during this time that stands out as a turning point in my grief. I was performing in the Mandarin musical If There’re Seasons. In one scene, I approached another character, half-teasing, half-concerned, and called his name. The moment the words left my lips, I realised that I had said them in the same tone I used to call Pepper when she was being cheeky.
It wasn’t just a thought—it was something I felt in my body, a physical ache that spread through me. Tears welled up in my eyes as my body reacted to the familiarity, to the loss of that moment in my life. Yet somehow, I continued my task on stage. I wasn’t consciously trying to push through; I was simply there, grieving and performing simultaneously. It was an incredible moment of duality—grieving and functioning at once, both beautiful and heartbreaking. That scene taught me that grief doesn’t have to stop you in your tracks. It becomes part of you, and life still goes on.
Living with Luna: New Love, Old Memories
Years have passed since I said goodbye to Pepper. As I sit here typing, my Jack Russell terrier, Luna, naps at my feet, her body pressed against me to make sure I’m safe and protected.
Both Luna and Pepper came into my life through adoption. Different quirks, same boundless capacity to love. For a long time after Pepper’s death, I couldn’t imagine having another dog. I thought it would diminish her memory, that bringing a new dog into my life meant she didn’t matter.
But Luna didn’t replace Pepper. She became a continuation of the love I had for her. With Luna, I revisit all of the places I used to go with Pepper. And while it still hurts, I now remember with more love than pain, and I find myself smiling at the memories rather than being overwhelmed by them. The grief never fully goes away, but in time, I have found room for new love alongside the old.
How to Say Goodbye to A Very Good Dog
Saying goodbye to a pet isn’t something you ever truly master. But if the love is real, then the grief is real too. It’s powerful, and that’s what makes it meaningful. Grieving isn’t about moving on. It’s about learning to carry them with you, in the whispers of the wind, in the woven memories, and in the love that stays long after we say goodbye.
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Warmly,
George Chan
This Is How We Heal
George Chan, MCOU, is a Counsellor, Grief Educator and Breathwork Coach who specialises in helping individuals navigate grief and loss through his private practice, This Is How We Heal. With a rich background in theatre and entertainment, George brings creativity and empathy to his work. When he's not in the therapy room, you might find him performing, choreographing, or working on a new production—or spending time with Luna, his Jack Russell Terrier, who doubles as his unofficial co-therapist and production critic.