I’ve been thinking a lot lately about pets, not just as companions, but as beings whose lives are deeply intertwined with our own. For many of us, they are witnesses to our daily rhythms, our joys, our illnesses, and our grief. And yet, we rarely talk about what happens to them when our lives change dramatically or come to an end.
This question came into focus for me unexpectedly while on a road trip with a friend. He needed to complete some continuing legal education hours, so as we drove, we listened to recorded lectures. One case in particular surprised me. It was the case of Happy the elephant at the Bronx Zoo.
For centuries, animals have been treated under the law as property, no different than a couch or a coffee table. But anyone who has loved a pet knows that comparison falls painfully short. Happy’s case was groundbreaking not because it instantly rewrote the law everywhere (sadly, it didn’t), but because it cracked open an essential question: Can an animal be recognized as a thinking, feeling being worthy of care beyond ownership?
While the legal outcome was complex, the conversation itself marked a cultural shift. It acknowledged something many of us already know so well, our relationships with pets create responsibility.
That shift is happening more broadly as well. The “Pets, not Property” movement has been gaining momentum across the country, with states reconsidering how animals are treated under the law. Pennsylvania, for example, has recently updated its statutes so that pets can be considered more thoughtfully in legal matters, including custody disputes. These changes reflect a growing recognition that animals are not interchangeable objects, but living beings with emotional bonds and needs.
For me, this isn’t theoretical.
When my late husband John and I were doing our own planning, we had two Burmese cats, Pugsley and Booboo. They were a bonded pair, inseparable in the quiet, intuitive way only animals can be. We made a very intentional decision to include provisions in our final documents specifying that they should be rehomed together by close friends we trusted deeply. It mattered to us that whoever stepped in understood our cats, respected their bond, and would take the responsibility seriously.
Today, I share my life with one cat, Ernest. I still include a provision for him as well. I’ve talked openly with my niece, who is designated to help ensure he finds a good home if I can’t be there. These conversations aren’t heavy or ominous. They’re loving. They are part of caring well.
The year 2019 brought layered grief. John died early in the year. Booboo had always been particularly close to him. Although Booboo remained at home with me, safe, familiar, and loved, it was clear he was grieving. Animals mourn too, even when everything else stays the same. Within a couple of months, Booboo passed away. By the end of that year, I had lost John and both cats. I was all by myself.
Then came 2020, and with it, the isolation of the pandemic. Our local pet shelter implemented a program to empty the shelter and place animals into foster homes. I felt drawn to participate. After so much loss, I realized I needed another heartbeat in my home.
My first foster was Morris, a friendly ginger cat who found his forever family quickly. My second foster was Sebastian.
When I went to pick up Sebastian, he was hiding behind a bookcase in the veterinarian’s office. He was so shaken that the vet couldn’t bear to put him in a cage. Sebastian had lost his person too. The vet warned me that he would probably hide for a long while.
For weeks, I went into the room where he was sheltering and read aloud. I didn’t rush him. I didn’t force connection. Slowly, he emerged. Over time, he became the sweetest, most affectionate cat. We had both been through the trauma of losing our person, and somehow, we recognized that in one another. Sebastian stopped being a foster and became my cat.
These stories, legal, personal, and tender, all point to the same truth: our pets are part of our lives in ways that deserve care and consideration, especially as we think about end of life.
If you love an animal, some gentle questions to consider:
- Who understands your pet’s temperament and needs?
- Are there bonded animals who should remain together?
- Have you shared your wishes with someone you trust?
- Are your intentions written down and revisited as life changes?
This isn’t about being morbid or overly cautious. It’s about continuity. It’s about ensuring that love doesn’t end abruptly when we’re no longer here to provide it.
Caring for our pets at the end of life is simply another way we live out what we value most, the connection, responsibility, and love that extends beyond ourselves.
