The ceremony story surrounding the death of our beloved dog, Kona and the home funeral we created in her honour. By Megan Sheldon, co-founder of Be Ceremonial
We got Kona when she 6 months old from the SPCA. We had just decided to get married and instead of an engagement ring I said let’s get a rescue puppy!
We fell in love with her immediately and got to experience 12 magical years together, although the last 3 were quite hard.
Kona was by our side for it all – the loss of a parent, the loss of 3 pregnancies, and the births of our 2 daughters. She had a calmness to her that was palpable. Never a jumpy or barky dog, she was shy and yet intrigued by others. She would welcome people when they came to our home and then find her spot in the dining room, an introvert at heart.
Her first seizure happened just after I’d taught an End of Life Ritual course. It was 4 minutes long and I was sure she was dying. I took her to the vet hospital and had to say goodbye in the parking lot due to Covid protocols.
I remember thinking this might be the last time I see her. But it wasn’t ~ we went on to have four more years with her, although she was riddled with ailments and on 12 pills a day.
Her life quality started to decline the past year and I knew that her time with us was coming to an end. Yet this was my first dog, so I didn’t know what to expect.
I reached out to my new friend Dr Jenn of Sage Paws for guidance. She’s a veterinarian and pet-loss guide who supports people before, during and after the death of a pet. She talked me through what to expect on the day of euthanasia, and gave me simple language to talk about it with our kids.
Once I knew what to expect physically, I started to consider the other aspects of death ~ our emotional, spiritual and social grief. I knew that there would be so many moments of grief and that it wouldn’t follow a linear line. I created space for my anticipatory grief ~ every walk suddenly felt more precious and sacred. I slowed right down, spending time with Kona on her schedule rather than trying to fit her into mine.
As I was preparing for her death, I found myself looking back on our life together. I created a photo album after going through 12 years of photos and videos on my phone. I showed my family old videos of Kona as a pup or when she welcomed them home from the hospital after their birth. They got to see parts of her life that they missed, and I got to relive old memories.
Once I had her photo album complete, I got to thinking about the ceremony I could create surrounding her death. I knew that I wanted it to be in our home, by our fireplace ~ her favourite spot. She hated the vet and at this point our relationship with them was purely transactional, so I didn’t feel the need to include them in this part.
I reached out to Lifting Stars, a mobile vet team that provides euthanasia in homes, and I asked them all kinds of questions. I wanted to make sure that the vet would speak to my kids and not around them. I wanted them to have the option of being present during the procedure and also have autonomy if they wanted to leave.
The morning of Kona’s last day, we kept the kids home from school and took Kona into the forest. We walked slowly and paused to soak it all in.
My youngest told everyone we met that her dog was dying today, and people’s reactions were so heartfelt. I was trying to normalize death for them, but in doing so I could see how uncomfortable some people were in talking about it.
Grief brings up grief, so for many people their eyes filled with tears as they thought about their own pets, alive and deceased.
After our walk, we came home and prepared Kona’s bed. Dr. Jeff arrived and walked us through what would happen. The girls listened intently, reassured that it all sounded familiar so far. Hearing it from me a few days before helped them process, and they both decided to stay during the euthasol injection.
We gave Kona some potato chips, which she once loved but hasn’t been allowed for many years due to her IBS. We also gave her some chocolate, because no one should die without tasting chocolate.
The girls had taken polaroids of Kona that past few days and displayed them on our mantle, along with candles, cards from friends, flowers and other momentos.
The girls had written a letter to Kona and chosen 3 stuffies that looked like her – one for each of them.
With the first injection, Kona fell asleep slowly. We all petted her and told her how much we loved her.
I brought out a ball of red thread and we each tied it around our wrists as many times as we chose. I chose three times, one for each of my girls. My eldest chose 5 times, for each member of our family. We tied it around Kona’s paw and once we were all connected by this thread, we shared what we will always remember and hold onto about Kona.
When we were ready, we cut the thread and tied it onto our wrists. We wanted Kona to take her thread with her and have it be cremated with her body, connecting us from a far.
When we were all ready, the second injection was administered and we saw her breath quicken and then eventually stop. Dr. Jeff told us that she was no longer alive, and we wept.
I had told my girls they could stay or leave at any time, but in the end they both chose to be there for the entire experience. It was their first death, and I think it was beautiful. They sat with Kona after she died and hugged her. They weren’t afraid and the energy was very calm.
My youngest took three of the roses and placed them under her paw. The girls each chose a white rose to dry in their rooms, another connection to this moment and their pup.
I put the letter the girls had written with the flowers, both to be cremated with her body.
When we were ready, we helped the vet place her body on the stretcher and carried her outside to the car together. We placed her in his car and said goodbye one last time. There were big cries by one of my children, and silent cries by the other. We all grieve differently, and I wanted them both to feel permission to grieve however felt best to them.
After, we let them watch a movie to have some downtime. We were all exhausted from the anticipation and emotions of the morning. In the afternoon, I asked the girls if they wanted to go to the beach and they jumped at the chance.
My eldest decided to write K-O-N-A in giant letters using rocks and driftwood. My youngest searched for seaglass quietly. They told people on the beach that our dog had just died and the most amazing thing happened ~ people started to help them with their tribute sculpture.
They brought rocks and sticks and logs over, crying a bit as they did. People shared their own stories from having lost pets, and told the girls their dog must have been pretty special.
It was wonderful to see how much strangers connected with my daughters and supported them in their grief. We then looked up to the sky and realized that the clouds had taken a phenomenal form; we’d never seen clouds like this before (and later realized it was indeed a rare phenomenon). I told the girls I wanted to get into the water (I love cold water swimming) so I left them on the beach to continue their tribute and I swam out into the ocean.
I cried and laughed and looked up to the sky with awe and wonder. I felt so connected to everything in that moment, and I knew it was a gift from Kona.
We then headed home and enjoyed a quiet evening at home, lighting candles on our fireplace mantle, along with the photos and cards and flowers for Kona. It was as good as it gets, and it was exactly what I had hoped it would be.
Now to find ways to walk with our grief and honour it whenever it shows up. We have our dried flowers and red thread and stuffies and photos to support us, and most importantly, we have our stories. That’s what we will hold onto most.
