Coping With Pet Bereavement

Last month, we put our dog to sleep. Her name was Lilly. She was a miniature schnauzer, eleven years old, and a member of our family. Before Lilly became the fifth Allen over a decade ago, little did we realize how completely this four-legged rascal would steal our hearts. What follows are memories about God’s work in our lives through Lilly.

Pre-Lilly forays into pet ownership had not been spectacular. When I was about four, and a certain ocean-based animation was in cinemas, I desperately wanted fish. Dad was duly dispatched and returned with a decent-size tank, which we loaded up with all manner of sea-life. Unfortunately, the whole business descended into the Hunger Games when ‘Sharky,’ the not-so-friendly neighborhood red-tail, had all his neighbors for dinner (in the literal sense).

After the fratricidal fish episode, we got a cat. It upped and ran off around Halloween one year because the food was better down the road, apparently; thirty pieces of silverside steak? Well, our feline Judas must’ve gotten what she was after, for never did she come back. All this is to say that our experience with pets, as a family, had been less-than-stellar. That all changed, on a summer night in 2012, when a lively, weeks-old schnauzer from West Belfast joined our clan!

Believe it or not, I had an awful fear of dogs, which bordered on phobia, right up to the day Lilly came home with us. For the first weeks, I recall a sense of entrapment under the same roof as a little monster, whose most evil plan was probably to cuddle me to death! I was free to say “no” to the new dog — there was no pressure from anyone, of course — although the chance to get over my baseless fear was, ultimately, too valuable to refuse. I said “yes” to Lilly.

Needless to say, these negative emotions were short-lived, and initial apprehensions towards Lilly gave way to bonds of trust. It’s hard to be scared of something you love: ‘perfect love casteth out fear’ (1 John 4.18), as the Bible says. Whereas Lilly would roll around with my sister, her best friend, she was noticeably gentler with me. Lilly showed real empathy towards me whilst I gradually came around.

When I finally felt able, after Lilly died, to rewatch old iPhone videos, it was nice to relive all the fun times we shared. Even dinner-time brought ample amusement with Lilly. She was a doggie version of Hansel and Gretel, always to be found in the middle of a trail of dog food. In the mind of a canine, it seems, a ground-floor kitchen is akin to the Black Forest in its navigational complexity.

Dogs, like their owners, have habits unique to them (such as Lilly’s food-weirdness). In other ways, however, they’re all the same. Few dogs like a bath; ours was no different. Many’s the time a soggy schnauzer would leap into bed and frantically try to dry herself off. You’d think the bath water, innocent enough, was really wet cement, liable to freeze her where she stood if she didn’t shake off every drop.

Squirrels were to Lilly what exuberant evildoers are to Batman. The mere mention of said rodent would send Lilly buck-daft. She was like SpongeBob’s hero, Mermaid Man, when anyone tells him, ‘There’s evil afoot.’ It was funny to see what reaction — on a scale of, ‘as you were,’ to, ‘MAN THE BARRICADES!’ — the dreaded S-word would receive in different stages of its entirety: “Squ-,” “Squirr-,” “SQUIRREL!!!”

Her affection was abundant; and — as ever, with animals — it was unconditional. She loved cuddles — from humans, not squirrels! — and would stand on her back legs, plop her front paws on the sofa, then shuffle her head under your arm for a snuggle. She was a living teddy bear, essentially.

Lilly died on 13th September after a brief sickness. Her kidneys had begun to fail her after about a week. It shocked us all, how fast her decline took hold. Even so, the speed was merciful, in that she didn’t suffer a protracted illness. Lilly passed away peacefully with my parents to reassure her.

The verse which I depend on in times like these is Revelation 21.5: ‘Behold, I make all things new.’ God recreates that which death has destroyed, our pets included. In this chapter of Revelation, St John foresees ‘a new heaven and a new earth’ (v. 1), where ‘there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying’ (v. 4), and animals will be there.

How, based on the biblical witness, can we know this? Both Testaments, Old and New, speak with one voice on the matter. ‘The wolf also shall dwell with the lamb, and the leopard shall lie down with the kid,’ foretells the prophet Isaiah (11.6). In the New Testament we have agreement from St John in his Gospel (1.3) and St Paul in Colossians (1.16) that all things are created through Christ. This means that no part of creation can be lost forever in the vale of death, unless Christ is eternally to remain divided. Again, we can look to Paul, this time in 1 Corinthians 1, to learn that Christ – and, therefore, his Creation – is indivisible, in the final analysis.

In the years ahead, I can take a little bit of extra comfort when loved-ones – whether they go by two legs, or by four – pass away. That’s because Lilly will bound straight over to them for a tummy-rub or a snuggle when heaven’s gates open to receive them. Hopefully there’s comfort in these words for you too, reader.

I joked with my priest — a keeper of innumerable pets, companions come and gone over the decades (I won’t say how many decades!) — that a small zoo will form his heavenly welcome committee; Noah from Genesis, eat your heart out! When Father goes to heaven, there will be such a chorus of barks, clucks, whinnies, and whatever sounds guinea pigs, hamsters and rabbits make: a glorious, joyful noise of reunion.