I think that sometimes it's harder to lose animals than it is to lose people. The animals we love teach us things that humans will never be able to - when I have wanted to scream at every person in my life, when I have been convinced I hated all of them, I could never have hated my dog. Their utter devotion, their helplessness without us, their unquestioning affection all teach us compassion and empathy in ways that you cannot learn from another person, or from reading out of a book, or from being lectured to.
I understand the value of a human life, and that people must always come before animals, but I understand also the value of implicit trust and unquestionable love on our ability to develop emotionally. I understand that when my cat followed me when I was 8 and tried to run away, he didn't know what he was doing - what matters is that he did it anyways, and that his helplessness in the face of the world, and my worry that he would get lost, in part motivated me to sit in the bushes around the block until I cooled down and went home, rather than continuing on and getting lost and hurt. I understand that when I cried and my dog sat with me until I could breath again, he had no idea what was going on, he had no grasp of human emotion or what those tears meant. That didn't matter then, and it doesn't matter now. What matters is that he sat with me, that I was comforted, that his distress was perhaps more genuine than any half-true reassurances a friend could offer.
Now those animals are gone. Those dogs, who sat beside me growing up, who inhabit nearly every one of my childhood memories, have passed away. One at the age of 17 after a long and happy life as the adored companion of three little girls. One more recently and far too young, only 10, the victim of invisible disease. That hurts the most - all those missed years without my constant companion. I still expect to trip over him, in his usual position sitting by my side, when I get up off the couch. I still expect to hear him barking when I come home. I expect to be bowled over by 80lbs of childish joy every time a chain jingles and he thinks he might get walked. What hurts more, though, is knowing that he didn't understand. That if he suffered, he didn't know why. That when he died alone and in the dark I was in a brightly lit ER being unnecessarily poked and prodded while he was the one who needed medical attention. It feels like betrayal to have left him alone in the face of that when he never once ignored my slightest suffering.
Our cat we lost to kidney damage, the only chance of saving him an operation that only could have prolonged his suffering. That was easier. We put him out of his suffering, it was relief instead of loss. Our other cat, now, has run away. My sisters are putting up posters for him, but I doubt he'll come back. He was a nasty cat, and hated us. He'd bite you if you paid attention to him and bite you if he thought you were ignoring him. Moving traumatized him and for the last two years he has lived mostly upstairs, hiding under beds and hissing at the new cat and the puppy whenever they get near.
Despite that, I'll miss him. Mostly because he was the last remainder of the animals that I grew up with. I pity him his suffering, I mourn his inability to understand that he was loved, no matter how evil and ugly. Ignorance is the most terrifying thing of all - ignorance of your worth, ignorance of death. When people die at least they understand what's happening. At least they know the whys, the hows, even if they don't know what's waiting for them afterwards (or if anything is waiting at all). Some people might find comfort in knowing that animals die without knowledge of those things, but I never have. I don't think I ever will.
Having been taught so many things by them, I can only feel guilt that I couldn't give them that one reassurance at the end in return, no matter how much I loved them in return for their devotion.
