Saying goodbye

Why losing a pet is so painful.

This week I wanted to write a slice of life story, something funny from everyday life that would hopefully make you smile. I’d scribbled a few notes, but every time I sat down with my laptop, the words wouldn’t flow.

Usually they come quickly, and I can cobble a first draft together in no time.

Not this week.

Instead of writing, I sat at the kitchen table, sobbing.

‘I can’t find anything fun to write,’ I told Chris. ‘Life’s just not fun at the moment.’

I wasn’t being dramatic. I felt down and didn’t have the energy to put a sentence together, never mind trying to be entertaining.

On Monday and Tuesday, I struggled to get out of bed for my 5am writing sessions. I love my early morning starts, so staying under the duvet is not me at all.

After a few days of depression, came the anger. I snapped at Chris; I snapped at a man calling to sell me something I didn’t want; and I raged about the state of the world.

I wondered what was happening to me. Was it a bad case of PMT or perhaps the perimenopause? Had my oestrogen levels plummeted, leaving me raging and rock bottom?

To make myself feel better, I forced myself to a spin class, getting my body moving and clearing my mind. And when I was driving home, I realised that what I was feeling – the sadness, the emptiness, the anger – were all symptoms of grief. And then it all made sense.

Two weeks earlier, our pet rabbit, Heathcliff, had died. I know some of you will be thinking, ‘Seriously? A rabbit? It’s just a rabbit. Get over it. Worse things are happening in the world.’

And I get that.

There is something utterly ridiculous about a 44-year-old woman grieving for her pet rabbit. But I can’t help how I feel.

I adored him.

He’d been with us for 10 and a half years and was much more than ‘just’ a pet. He was brilliant – so friendly and affectionate, always wanting attention, coming to say hello when we got home and goodnight before bed. When he’d started struggling with arthritis, we made him a stairlift, which he used to hop in and out of his cage. He was ace!

Given his advancing years, I knew he had little time left, but it was still a shock to see how quickly he deteriorated. I hoped he’d slip away in his sleep, but I know from my experience with my other pets that this rarely happens. Euthanasia is often the kindest thing. But it’s such a hard decision to make.

The vet reassured us we were doing the right thing and did his best to make it easier for us, as well as the rabbit. ‘We don’t see many rabbits this old,’ he said. ‘You’ve really looked after him. You’ve looked after all your pets.’

I found comfort in the fact that Heathcliff was a great age. Although, I wish he’d made it to eleven.

Saying goodbye was sad, it always is, but we didn’t have time to dwell too much on his death. The day after, we had a family wedding, and my auntie and cousins were visiting from the States. I wanted to make the most of the precious time with them, so instead of letting my emotions flow, I bottled them up and carried on.

Two weeks later, it’s no surprise I was sitting at the kitchen table sobbing my heart out and feeling very sorry for myself. For the past few years, it’s been loss after loss. My lovely Shetland pony, Hamish, died in 2021, followed by both our dogs (Teddy and Archie) last summer. They were all old, but that didn’t make it any easier.

I remember when the first of our dogs died; the vet handed me a leaflet for a pet bereavement support service.

‘Coping with the loss or a pet?’ the leaflet says. ‘We’re here to listen.’

Although I was a wreck, I knew that, with time, I’d be okay and wouldn’t need to call. But I kept it anyway, just in case. I’ve lost a lot of pets over the years – horses, dogs, ponies – but it was the rabbit that nearly broke me. As I struggled to stop my tears, I thought about calling the helpline. I actually picked up the leaflet (not the phone), and wondered what I would say, imagined how the conversation might go.

Hello, I’m a middle-aged woman heartbroken at the death of my rabbit.

‘A rabbit!’

I can’t stop crying.

‘Pull yourself together.’

I can’t. It’s so sad.

‘You’re 44! Not four!’

I know.

‘Why don’t you get another? They breed like—’

I just want him back.

‘He’s just a rabbit.’

He was special.

‘Really?’

I’m sure the people on the helpline would have been much more understanding, but I felt ridiculous at my reaction to his death. Instead of dialling the number, I made myself a cup of tea, asked Alexa to play ‘Bright Eyes’ on repeat, and tried to work out why I was feeling so upset.

‘It’s because you’re playing ‘Bright Eyes’,’ Chris said. ‘That’s enough to make anyone weep.’

‘It’s because he was part of the family,’ I said, remembering how small he’d been at six-weeks-old when I’d brought him home.

Despite his small size, he became a big part of the family. He’d been with us for a long time – over a decade. A lot had happened in those years, (the birth of our niece, our wedding, house moves, several new jobs, a global pandemic,) and he’d been a constant part of our daily life.

Most days after work, I’d make myself a hot chocolate and sit with him, watching as he hopped about. Every so often, he’d nudge my foot, demanding a cuddle. He was the most laid-back rabbit ever. He’d happily lie on his back, on my lap, while I groomed him. His feet would be in the air, his head back, and he’d stay like that for ages while I cleaned him.

After the dogs died, he completely took over, moving from the garden into the house and making the most of all the attention. Having him around helped me cope with losing them. With his loss came the reminder of their loss and the loss of the pony and the horse before that and on I went, peeling back the layers of grief.

Animals, big and small, have always been a huge part of my life. From being young, my days have revolved around taking care of them.

At the peak, we had three horses, two ponies, two dogs and two rabbits. ‘It’s like Noah’s ark,’ Chris said when he met me. He knew that if he wanted to be a part of my life, he’d have to embrace the menagerie.

‘You’re good with animals,’ he said.

‘Better with them than people,’ I said.

And we’ve certainly had some good times with memories I will treasure. Evening horse rides after work with my sister and friend; long walks with the husband and hounds; watching Channel 4 News with Archie the dog (he loved it); teaching Ted, the little dog, a dance routine so he could audition for the part of Toto in Andrew Lloyd Webber’s musical of The Wizard of Oz; and, of course, enjoying a hot chocolate with the rabbit, while listening to Ed Sheeran (his favourite).

Heathcliff and Chris having a selfie.

Yes, there’s been difficult times. When it’s dark and cold and midwinter and all of us are knee deep in mud, counting down the days until spring. The time Archie ate some seaweed on holiday in Northumberland and had to have emergency surgery, and on the same holiday, Ted urinating in Barter Books. Not forgetting the corn-field fires and all of us – horses, dogs, rabbit, husband, and parents – making a run for it.

But mostly, it’s been fun.

With all animals, there is an unconditional and uncomplicated love. Spending time with them, watching them, and just being with them, enjoying the moment, is wonderful. If I’ve had a tough day, they make it better. And they’re always pleased to see me. Always.

Each relationship with them is different. They all have unique personalities. I love getting to know them, understanding what they like and don’t like, communicating with them, and, over the years, developing such a special bond.

Final goodbyes are hard, but I always make sure I thank them. It seems the only thing left to say. Taking care of them has not only given me a purpose, but it’s also been a privilege. It’s no wonder I feel such an overwhelming sense of loss when they die.

And I could blame my excess emotions on my fluctuating hormones, or PMT, or the accumulation of loss, or my advancing years and realising that life is fragile. I could blame it on all these things. But actually, I just really loved my rabbit.