Many of us will have experienced the incredible joy and anticipation on the day we can collect our new best friend. 

Puppy or kitten, pure bred, mutt or maybe even a senior friend, these animals are part of our world within hours and occupy a place in our hearts shortly thereafter. 

Our pets are members of the family, sharing holidays, celebrating milestones, acting as doorbells and alarm clocks, but most of all, being present and full of love in every moment.

So, when the time comes to say goodbye, it is a struggle, and the hole they leave in your life is real and not to be underestimated. 

We often get asked if it’s the hardest thing we do, euthanasia, and the answer in my experience is no.

Euthanasia for a sick, injured or aged patient is a gift we are able to provide, it ends suffering and allows us the chance to humbly recognise the impact they have had on our lives.

The hard part about euthanasia is supporting the people left behind, hearing the wonderful stories about their friend, now resting peacefully on the table between us and knowing the emptiness they will feel as they walk in the door at home. 

I recently lost my own working dog mutt, and despite 10 years of supporting friends and clients through the process of decision making and euthanasia, it hit me like a tonne of bricks. 

The grief is real and the sadness lingers; every time you come home that wet nose waiting for you at the door is missing, silence fills the hallway rather than excitement and love. 

We are often told that grief comes in stages, that it is a process to work through and that it gets easier with time. 

While this may be true, I have more recently heard that thinking of grief in a linear fashion like this can make it harder, as it creates an expectation of a time frame of when you should feel better again or ‘be over it’. 

I see this to be true, our bond with our animals is unique, and means immensely different things to different people. As a result, the way in which we need to grieve and process our sadness is different, and likely not linear. 

My dear friend recently talked about grief like a ball bouncing around a room with an obstacle in the middle; while grief is fresh the room is small and the ball hits the obstacle often, triggering memories and sadness.

As time passes the room gets bigger and the ball hits the obstacle less often, yet it never stops completely, and the obstacle doesn’t get any smaller.  Grief continues, its impact just lessons with time. 

So, a little tip from a vet with a piece of her heart missing, waiting over the rainbow bridge; take the time to grieve and don’t let anyone belittle the importance of the process, celebrate the wonderful memories and when the time is right, find the next special wet nose.