For some reason, pet goodbyes often land harder than people goodbyes. Maybe it’s because our pets, unlike people, never ask to borrow money. Never send it back to the kitchen. Never say, “We need to talk.”
People suck. I’ll save the rest of that rant for another post.
A while ago, a few years apart, we lost two of the world’s greatest German Shepherds-Max and Ace. They’ve been gone for years, but for the longest time we kept their remains in the beautiful wooden boxes they were returned to us in. There was something comforting about having them still with us, even if “with us” had become a couple of boxes on a shelf.
Somehow, we just weren’t ready to fully let them go. Until recently.
I’m not exactly sure what went into the decision, but one day we decided it was time for a final goodbye. The only question was where.
So we chose the one place where they had both been happiest. Home.
We said a few words, then spread their ashes and remains in the garden in the backyard. The same yard where they played, slept in the sun on the hot brick, kept watch over absolutely nothing and launched themselves into full-scale zoomies for reasons known only to German Shepherds.
It felt right. It also felt strangely peaceful.
The least we could do was let them keep a small place here.
Maybe that’s the thing about saying goodbye to a pet. You never really do.
You let go of the part you can’t hold, but you keep the rest. In the stories. In the photographs. In the habits you still expect to see out of the corner of your eye. In the empty spot on the floor where they used to sleep. And sometimes, in a little wooden box tucked away somewhere in the house.
Max and Ace may be in the garden now, but they’re still home.
And I think, in one way or another, that’s where the ones we love are always supposed to be.
