God cares about your grief—even the loss of a beloved pet

There is a particular kind of silence that follows the loss of a beloved animal. A deafening silence where joy once sang and love danced on paws. The silence is often as painful as it is sacred. And yet, in the midst of that sacred silence, one of the most hurtful things a grieving heart can hear is, “It was just a pet.”

But you know better. You know there was nothing “just” about it.

Minimizing the grief over losing a beloved animal by saying it was “just a pet” would be like saying a tornado is just some wind, a tsunami is just a wave, or a landslide is just some mud. It is the power of the force that creates the impact. And when it comes to the bond we share with our animals, the force is immeasurable, for it is love in its most pure and uncomplicated form.

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Before I began writing Thank You For Loving Me, I had spent years trying to gently weave threads of grief support into the stories I told.

Before I began writing Thank You For Loving Me, I had spent years trying to gently weave threads of grief support into the stories I told. As a former hospice grief counsellor, I understood how deeply people can feel the loss of a loved one, how often grief is often minimized, and how loss can reshape a life. And I wanted to honour those realities. But I would hesitate, worried that speaking too directly about grief might make people turn away because it would feel too heavy, too sad. So, I would tuck small “grief counselling nuggets” into my books instead, hoping they might quietly find their way to the people who needed them.

But grief, by its very nature, needs to be acknowledged.  And losing a loved one is heavy and sad.

The turning point came during a book signing event, when a woman named Naomi held out her phone to me, with tears in her eyes and a smile on her lips. She showed me photo after photo of her pug, Princess, who had died six months earlier. It was clear she was still deeply grieving her loss. I was honoured that she was inviting me into that sacred space where grief meets grace.

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As she shared her story, I thought about the many people I have met over the years who were not only grieving but also searching.

As she shared her story, I thought about the many people I have met over the years who were not only grieving but also searching. Searching for language, for understanding, for a place where their grief could be seen without being minimized or dismissed, and perhaps, most of all, searching for hope that the connection they had with their pet might somehow endure.

Standing there with Naomi, I felt God whisper that it was time to stop speaking around grief and start speaking directly into it. Not from a clinical perspective or in a “five steps to grieve” kind of way, but with something deeper. Something that could meet people in the quiet, lonely places and remind them that they are not alone.

As I felt myself say yes to God’s whisper, another gentle whisper stirred my heart as I thought about our dog, Bailey, who had died a few years earlier. As I looked at the spot where Bailey used to nap, my heart heard: thank you for loving me while I was with you. Your love was more fragrant than my favourite sniffing spot, softer than my softest bed, sweeter than my favourite treats. And in that moment, I knew that I needed to write in the voice of the pets we have lost.

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So, I sat with an open Bible and an open imagination, and asked God to allow me to hear the words our pets would say to us if they could speak. Words that might help us through our grief as we learn to live without them by our side. Words that would help us keep them forever safe in our hearts.

If your heart feels heavy today because you have lost a beloved pet, let it be heavy without apology or minimization because your loss is a loss worth grieving.

And if you find yourself longing for someone to sit with you in the sacred space where grief meets grace, please know that you are not alone there. The One who loved you so much that he sent your animal to extend his love to you is with you even now. Waiting for you to invite him into your grief. Holding you through the pain. And anticipating the day when he will make all things new and when death and grief will be no more.