Working Through the Loss of a Service Dog

My first service dog, Robbie, passed away earlier this year, in May. The grief I felt... it ripped through me, pinned me down, and kept swinging back around to topple my stability for months to come. 

That day, when we rushed him to the animal hospital, I was focused on him, while also crumbling on the inside. None of it felt real. Just the night before, I'd been researching more luxurious orthopedic beds for his weary joints, and now...

​I held his head as he drifted away, and told him it was okay, that he could rest now. I'd be okay. 

I held him until he was gone, gently stroking his graying fur, thanking him for everything he had done for me. I closed my eyes and impressed on my memory the softness of his ears, the intense amber of his eyes, the lightness of his large paws, the daintiness of his long legs, the whorls of his fur, and the strength of his shoulders that kept me safe on many occasions. 

That day, I felt more cold and alone than I ever had before. It felt like I'd never be warm or whole again. 

The first month, I was bedridden. The grief overwhelmed me mentally, and came back around to overwhelm my pain levels. I stuck to a skeleton routine of exercise, playtime, and short training bursts with my in-training dog, who we'd gotten in September of last year (thankfully overlapping with my 1st service dog for a few months), and then would collapse in bed again to drown out the world with favorite tv shows and movies. I was working with one client at the time, and kept my commitments to her, but minimum other work got done. 

It's been 6 months. I am okay. My 2nd service dog graduated through the levels beautifully, and is working with me daily. I'm warm, and whole - mostly. A piece of me is forever altered, cracked from the loss of my 1st service dog. 

From One Handler to Another...

1. Let yourself feel all the grief. It hurts, it will flare your condition up, and you'll feel like you're drowning. Keeping it in, though... you'll bubble over when you're least ready to handle it. 
2. Caveat to #1 - if it hurts TOO much to feel it all at once, give yourself set times to fall apart and plan ahead for activities to do afterwards to help bring yourself back
3. Ideally, I'd say talk to someone, but, you may not have any words. Find someone who will sit with you in the silence and listen when you're ready. 
4. Day of/week of, nominate a friend or family member to be in charge of telling the rest of the friend circle/family members about the loss and to please give you space, you'll reach out when you're ready. - My sister offered to be this person for me, and gosh, it was brilliant and incredibly helpful. I would not have thought of it, but yeah, she was my 3rd call and it was getting harder and harder to say the words out loud that Robbie was gone. My family is very caring, but persistently so at times, and I wasn't ready for it. 
5. Don't put a timeline on when you're gonna "be better." - I'm okay, and I'm also still tearing up writing this.  
6. On the subject of successors...
   1. If you overlapped starting a successor before you lost your previous dog, try to keep to a skeleton routine for the first bit, and then lean into training them as a distraction for yourself in short bursts AND because you really need their help and cannot hit pause forever. 
   2. If you weren't able to start a successor beforehand, DON'T go out and get one right away. Let yourself grieve, and get in a place where you're ready to start a new chapter, not where you still just desperately want what you had, back. Actively grieving while starting a new dog can accidentally do all sorts of things including creating separation anxiety, lack of boundaries, picking the wrong dog, and more. 
7. Set boundaries with your friends and family. "Thank you, I'm not ready to talk about it yet." "Thank you for being here for me." "This is a rough time for me right now and I don't have the energy for X." 
8. Do what you need to do to keep moving forward. Buy the easy pre-made meals. Prioritize life. Say no. Wear PJs. Take your medication. 
9. Stop. Looking. At. Photos. I say this with great understanding and compassion. Scrolling through all of your photos of your passed service dog keeps you in the darkness longer, and twists you up inside. First week or so, fine. But then, I encourage you to take a step back. Grief doesn't have a timeline, but there are some things which help and some which stop helping, and losing yourself in the past stops helping pretty quick. If you can't, nominate a friend to have this talk with you (ideally before this day ever comes). - About 2 weeks after, my husband found me in bed with both his phone, and mine, scrolling through all the photos of Robbie. He gently put his hand over the screen with, "It's time to stop looking for him." He hugged me and I cried more. I listened, and made an active decision to only look at 1 photo a day. Bit by bit, it got easier, and I no longer felt compelled to look for him. He is always with me in my memories, and my future training. 
10. Find a way to remember them in a way that works for you. They deserve to be remembered. Do what YOU feel is right for YOU, though, not what anyone else tells you that you should do. - We buried Robbie under an apple tree because he loved apples. My mother-in-law bought a memorial stone kit for me and her to create together to place under the tree. It was a good progress step for me. The ER vet asked us if we wanted a paw print from him. We said yes. (It's incredibly weird to add this to your bill at the time, but worth it.) My mentor sent me a memorial plaque; it's propped up with the paw print, and a photo of Robbie holding a bouquet at our wedding. What I wanted most was to bury him under the apple tree, and to hang his work vest in a frame, like what's done with fallen heroes' gear. And so we did that, too. 
11. Know that people in your life may not understand why you're "still" grieving or that you need help with basic life, because, "it's a dog." Until you have worked with a service dog, you cannot grasp the depth of the connection between handler and service partner. I didn't. I could imagine it, having had strong connections with horses I had trained, but it wasn't until I was partnered with Robbie, relying on him everyday that I understood I was experiencing a partnership I'd never had before. Retiring him was like having a piece of me missing. Losing him... that was like having my soul ripped out and shoved off a cliff. People were supportive, absolutely, without question, but, honestly I got the impression some people expected me to be all better within a month or two. The external reaction to your loss is, jarring, too. When a spouse or family member dies, everyone shows up physically. They rally. They bring you meals, they help with chores, they're THERE. When Robbie died, people shared condolences, but there was not a noticeable effort to be here physically, offering actual help with life. I desperately needed that. We both did, my husband and I, but I had no idea how to ask for it, let alone explain why our life had been turned upside-down. I expected people to know and get it, because they'd SEEN Robbie's influence on me for years. And to conceptually be able to grasp that my assistive device was gone, and I literally needed actual physical help. Sure, Robbie had been retired for a bit, but he had still be helping me at home on the bad days, and there was still a sense of being safe as long as he was here. Suddenly he was gone, and with it, my sense of safety. I didn't get the impression people understood my new reality, and it made the grief harder and more like I had to live in it alone. I wish I had had the words at the time to ask for what I needed and impress the gripping need for it. 
12. Take care of their gear and equipment on your timeline, not someone else's. The day we lost Robbie, we came home and needed to wait for people to meet up with, and I really needed something to do because I couldn't handle feeling all of it just yet. So we did hang up his collar, fold up his crate and move it to storage, and put the extra gear in a new tote labelled, "Dog Supplies." Some of his gear and equipment is being reused with Austin, like toys. Personally, I needed to not see his empty crate or bowls, most of all. It was too hard. Seeing the empty space was hard too, but not as sharp. 

Losing a service dog is brutal. You're reminded of the loss every single moment in a day you need help, and would've asked for them. It's every time you get dressed. Every time you drop something. Every time you lose your balance. You spent more time with your service dog than possibly anyone else in your day to day life for those years. You were never alone because they were always by your side, or nearby, ready to jump into action. You were safe from your condition & disability, because they knew their job and they knew you were their charge. They had it covered. They were the one who listened to your every fear, hope, and dream. Things you didn't feel like you could say to anyone else, they listened. Where you felt a burden to ask a person for help, you know your service dog loved their job and would never resent you for needing the help (even if you know in your heart your people don't actually resent you either). The toys they loved are still there. The beds they laid on, lay empty. The corner where their crate was is now vacant. There's gear everywhere. You have favorite treats leftover. 

He is everywhere for me. He had me covered. Living with CRPS, not many management approaches have worked on my case, but a service dog's assistance made a huge difference. His assistance was versatile, and reliable. He knew I needed him, and demanded I accept his assistance offers. We worked together for 7 years, moment to moment with this horrid condition. I trained him. I built Disabled Advantage with him. I had to take a break from work for a bit after I lost him, but I couldn't escape forever. He is the star of most of my teaching videos, training tip photos, educational graphics, and is featured on my business cards. Initially, I pulled away from all these reminders, but as the weeks passed, I leaned into them. He is all around me. He will always be the reason I am where I am today, and who I am as a service dog trainer. Disabled Advantage is here, because of my partnership with him. 

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You will be okay. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or next week. One day, you'll be doing your normal routine again, and you'll pause, breathe, and realize, "I'm okay. I can do this."