The death of a beloved pet is an unplanned grief. It’s deep, raw, and lonelier than expected. And when it’s the dying done by euthanasia, feelings get tangled. Grief is mixed with guilt, doubt, and second-guessing.
For so many of us, the pet isn’t just an animal—they’re a loyal companion, a steady friend, a comfort and love without expectation. The decision to allow them to pass peacefully is one made in love, yet it can still be left with a painful burden.
Guilt tends to creep in following euthanasia. It comes with a tidal wave of questions—Did I do all that I could? Did I wait too long, or perhaps not long enough? Was there something I overlooked? Marty Tousley, a grief counselor, says it simply: “Guilt is one of the most frequent responses in pet loss—guilt over what we might have done and guilt over what we might have not done—because we so desperately want to do the right thing forour beloved fur babies, knowing how much they are depending on us.”
That care we have as their guardian can make guilt particularly painful. Our animals can’t speak to us in those last moments, and that silence can be devastating.
But it’s worth remembering that intent matters. Most pet parents are coming from a place of love—deep, abiding love. Every vet appointment, every difficult decision, every sleepless night spent praying for a miracle comes from a place of wanting to do the right thing by a dear friend.
Marty Tousley reminds us softly that just because we feel guilty, it doesn’t mean we are. Grief brings up all sorts of emotions, and guilt is usually one of them. But would you ever criticize another pet owner as much as you criticize yourself? Doubt it.
Forgiving ourselves isn’t something that occurs in an instant. It takes time, a process. Step by step. And sometimes healing involves learning how to communicate with your pet once more—not in the flesh, but spiritually or symbolically. Writing them a letter, lighting a candle, talking to them out loud—these little things can be powerful.
Tousley recommends having a ritual: perhaps read your letter to your pet, then burn it and send the smoke into the air with your words. These things aren’t about forgetting your pet. They’re about letting go of the burden of guilt to start healing.
The love you experienced with your pet does not die with their death. In his essay “The Fourth Day,” Martin Scot Kinsolving presents the concept that, while time moves on and with the agony, something wonderful starts to come through—that the love you had is still out there, alive and well. It’s their inheritance. That love is why the sorrow is so severe, and it’s also the reason that will propel you ahead.
You don’t have to experience this loss alone. Sharing your story with others—whether in a support group, with friends, or through some form of artistic creation—can also ease the burden.
Small gestures, like putting a picture of your pet or building a small memorial, can bring consolation and a feeling of continuity. One of the owners who had lost her pet took comfort in a drawing created by her granddaughter—her cat surrounded by a halo. It was a way to remember, to honor, and to hold on to the love that still lingered.
Grieving after saying goodbye to a pet—especially by way of euthanasia—is proof of just how deep that bond was. It’s ugly, it’s ugly, and it’s very human. But with time, compassion for oneself, and possibly a couple of small rituals, the rough edges of guilt will soften. And in their place, the glow of love can remain—silent, long-lasting, and always there.