Día los Muertos para las mascotas

Anyone who knows me knows I’ve been an animal lover since birth. I grew up in a house with eight cats, a couple of dogs, tons of fish, turtles rescued from the road, and many rodents. There are countless photos of me as a child holding a furry friend up to the camera, playing with a dog in the yard, or passed out in my bed with a cat nestled next to me. My adulthood has included several years volunteering in animal shelters, fostering small animals, and the adoption of 10 cats and four dogs. Loving pets unfortunately means losing them too. The number I’ve loved means I’ve had to say goodbye just as many times.

Anyone who knows me also knows I am a proponent of grief rituals and an avid study of the many ways different cultures mourn and honor their lost loved ones. The Mexican tradition the Days of the Dead has always been a favorite — a celebration of the lives we were lucky to have intersect with our own, happening for two days just after Halloween during the season when some believe there is a “thinning of the veil,” a belief that the spiritual realm and the earthly one are less disparate, more able to touch each other. For years, I’ve known that November 1 is for children who have died (technically Día de los Innnocents); November 2 for adults.

I was surprised — but pleasantly so — to learn that today, October 27, was designated the Day of the Dead for pets, Día los Muertos para las mascotas. Not only because of the many, many animals who have been my family and been just as beloved, but also because so much of my writing and grief work has focused on disenfranchised loss — those deaths that tend to receive less social recognition or respect: including friends, siblings, and pets. Knowing that building an altar and acknowledging the importance of the non-humans who share our lives is now a thing means so much.

A dear friend lost a dog this week. It was painful for them on a number of levels, making the grief complicated. This resonated hard for me. My last dog loss was differently complex, but it was as hard as any death I’ve experienced, and I don’t always feel like I can admit that.

It wasn’t tragic: Trixie, a border collie-corgi mix, lived to be about 15 — incredible for a former stray from the streets of Arkansas — and she was surrounded by love and care when she left for the other realm. But she was the dog that made me understand the whole “best friend” thing about dogs; I have referred to her as The Dog of My Heart. I hate to play favorites because I’ve adored all of my animals, but these things happen. And Trixie saw me through so much: the death of my older brother, the move to two different houses, at least six job changes, and ultimately my super hard divorce. I cried into her rabbit-soft fur more times than I can count. She also made me laugh daily, got me outside on adventures, and was a world-class snuggler. I loved her hard, and was gutted when she died. I still think about her every day, and she’s been gone nearly three years now. If I ever hear someone utter again, “It was just a dog,” my head might explode.

So, tonight, I made a quick altar for Trixie and her (also wildly missed and cherished) corgi brother Hank, my first dogs as an adult, inviting them to come back to visit. I hope wherever they are they can sense my reverence and gratitude. I write this from bed, with my current dogs, Rhys and Gwynnie, lying next to me, snoring softly, thankful always for the gift of the company of pets. Love and loss two sides of the same coin.