Homesick - Companion animals and the concept of home

Maintaining good quality of life for a fragile being is a balancing act where anything out of the ordinary, such as a different carer, upsets the equilibrium that the primary caregiver and care receiver have found together over a long period of time. A temporary carer doesn’t know the exact ratio of food to water to prepare the perfect meal, or that deep rest comes with a very set routine. Sometimes new insights bring new and helpful ideas. Sometimes the primary caregiver needs to work that extra bit harder upon return, to pull the care receiver back onto the balancing wire.

When a primary caregiver loses someone they have taken care of intensively for an extended period of time, it can feel like being released from a heavy duty and finding solid ground under their feet. This can be interpreted in various ways: like finding freedom - or losing your meaning in life. Or both.

Flying home. Photo by Arthur Tseng on Unsplash

Being released from caring duties: Is it freedom?

I have been hearing from various people in my parents’ generation that when their last pet died, they chose not to adopt or buy any more pets, as they didn’t want to take on such care any longer. The children had left the house and were independent, ageing parents were still able to care for themselves, or had passed away, and this was the first time since having children that the pensioners didn’t have to take care of anybody but themselves.

Having had companion animals for over two decades, and having guided several of my furry household members through end-of-life, I had expected to welcome the freedom to lie in, or being able to go away for a night without having to prepare in advance.

Yet, two months later, next to missing my sidekick intensely, I feel there is something deeper going on.

Who, not where, is your home?

This past weekend I was reflecting on this feeling with my father-in-law, who, in his lifetime, has had to say goodbye to many companion and farm animals. We reflected on what it means to share your life with a cat or dog, even if they don’t live in the house.

The words we came up with were ‘home’ and ‘anchor’. For me personally, Lewis helped ground me. He was my emotional support animal, without the official status or prescription.

I used to have a sign hanging from my front door which said ‘A home without a cat is just a house’. This has become more poignant over the past two months.

When I Googled the word ‘home’, the standard adjective and adverb that came up were ‘relating to the place where one lives’ and ‘the place where one lives’. The verb ‘homing’, though, was described as ‘an animal returning by instinct to its territory after leaving it’.

I wonder whether the latter more accurately explains that innate feeling many of us pet caregivers get by returning to our houses after having been away for a while. Or more sadly, that feeling or presence we can’t return to when we have lost our non-human housemate. After all, when pets rub their olfactory glands on us, and we glide our hands over their fur, are we not basically marking each other as “our territory”?

I never really understood how some people can be away from their house for long periods of time and hop between holiday and work-trips, mostly living out of a suitcase. I am now wondering whether they are just missing - and seeking - their sense of home.

Secure attachments

For many people, the relationship with a companion animal is the first, and sometimes only, relationship they have had that is unconditional. It’s the place where you can be yourself and not worry about judgment or blame. It is a place of compassion, for oneself and them.

It also explains the connection between Lewis and me. Never one to curb his sense of adventure, I would always allow him to go outside immediately when we moved house, or when we visited someone with a garden, showing him where it was safe and how to get back home. I had a strong sense that he would always find his way back to me. Because like me, he knew who his home was. I occasionally stretched the elasticity of that bond by travelling half the globe for research. But the elastic would always bounce back into its original shape upon my return. He would humour me when I brought home hospice patients in need of a ‘home’ for a few months, knowing that the extra person wouldn’t break the elastic between us. He would welcome the new player, because with a third party, you can invent new games like the French Skipping game.

Looking beyond pet “ownership”

I am lucky to have a reflective nature, and people around me who are able to support me, hold space for my grief and share their own reflections in a constructive way. I know who my sounding boards are, and I know I can always ask for help or a hug. But this is not a given for everyone.

If access to shelter is a basic human right, should having a home be a clause in that right? And to continue along those lines, should we have access to support to find our sense of home again when we have lost it?

When care providers, be that veterinary or human, encounter a client with a pet, it is paramount that they keep the meaning of the relationship between human and non-human front and centre.

What does it mean when we give a person the choice to opt for treatment, relinquish their companion animal or euthanise? What could be the emotional implication for this person when they are “relieved” of the caregiver burden? How will their grief develop or impact their sense of worth? Will the loss be simple (as I expected would happen to me), or actually a formative experience which brings up a host of other emotions and grief, seemingly unconnected, but actually very connected (what actually happened to me)? Will they become homesick?

More importantly, how can we support a person dealing with the aftermath (and pre-math) of this impending loss? How can we “manage” a process so that a person knows that their pet is not “just a pet” and that what is waiting for them in terms of emotions goes deep - and they should ask for and receive help?

We can never truly stop people from falling into the hole of grief after they have lost their beloved friend. But we can definitely ensure that they pack some tools and snacks for the journey, and have a team waiting with ropes and ladders to get the griever out of that hole.

I am a strong believer that the future of pet and veterinary care is one that includes the care for the bereaved pet caregiver. Not an extra service they have to search for in the darkness of that hole, but an intrinsic way of caring for the pet and the family as one unit. A sort of wraparound care for the lifecycle of a companion animal. I have yet to find a sustainable way to introduce this holistic way of working; I think One Health clinics, where pets and people are treated under the same roof by an interdisciplinary team, might be a part of the solution. I am keen to hear your thoughts, experiences and reflections that bubbled up from reading this article, so please share them in the comments.

Sies.

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About me

My name is Sieske Valk (pronounced as Sees-kuh Falk). I started my career as a veterinary nurse in the Netherlands. After a short stint working as a social science researcher, I set up an animal care company in London, called Sies Petcare. This grew into Autumn Animals, the UK’s first holistic palliative and hospice care organisation. Trained as an end-of-life doula for companion animals, I supported numerous families through the autumn of their furry friend’s life, and after. I live with my husband Jamie, in beautiful Devon and have a Lewis-shaped hole in my heart.

I now support veterinary businesses that want to improve their palliative and hospice services and support their team through challenging cases. If you’d like to have a chat about this, go to www.calendly.com/autumnanimals or visit autumnanimals.com for more information.