You Never Left: Reflections on Pet Loss, the Afterlife, and Continuing Bonds

There are many questions that come with the death of a beloved pet. When Samson died, one of mine was simple:

Was Samson mad at me? Disappointed that I had made the decision to end his suffering?

Like many other pet parents faced with the euthanasia decision, I struggled a lot with it. I knew why I made the decision. I knew what his health had become. I was jerked out of denial into anticipatory grief the day I came home and Samson did not greet me but stayed under my bed. He ALWAYS greeted me when I came home. And when he stopped eating... I knew something was going wrong. This cat LOVED food. But knowing those things did not answer the question that mattered to me after he was gone: Did he understand why I did it?

I've talked about my fascination with the human-animal bond and Samson's role within my family and how that bond inspired my curiosity and ultimately my research. Throughout our years together, I felt I could interpret Samson's expressions, behaviors, and very strong opinions through my human lens. I knew when I thought he was happy, annoyed, demanding, or trying to tell me something. But there was always another side of that relationship that I couldn't access.

What was all of this like from his side?

A Few Thoughts on Animal Communication

Arik Kershenbaum's Why Animals Talk: The New Science of Animal Communication (2024) makes a case I found grounding in my own questions about Samson: animal signals aren't random or chaotic but structured systems shaped by millions of years of evolution. Kershenbaum pushes back on the instinct to measure animal communication against human language and grammar, arguing instead that we need to understand each species on its own evolutionary terms. And while human language does something uniquely complex, he traces it back to the same evolutionary roots that produced every other form of animal communication—we're not as separate from the conversation as we like to think.

For fun, during my time with Samson, I had sought out the services of a few animal communicators. Some pointed out fascinating things about Samson and our relationship, but I mostly approached the experiences with curiosity and entertainment.

Then Samson died.

And suddenly, I wasn't curious anymore.

I was grieving.

When Faith Doesn't Give You an Easy Answer

My faith has long given me a framework for thinking about death. Within my Christian tradition, there is language for what happens when a person dies—heaven, eternal life, reunion, and the assurance that death is not necessarily the end. I remember discussing this with one of the participants in my study, who happened to also be a Christian. When I inquired about where they thought their beloved dogs that they had lost were now, they looked troubled and said they didn't know. And the reason they didn't know was because they had no way of knowing if their dogs were able to accept Christ as their savior, and so they didn't know if their dogs were with Jesus.

I get it. Samson couldn't tell me what he believed. There wasn't a Bible verse I could turn to that definitively told me where my cat had gone. And there certainly wasn't one that could tell me whether he understood the decision I had made for him, and so I was left with questions and very few answers.

So I did something that my own faith tradition might have a few judgments about: I contacted an animal communicator who specialized in communicating with animals who had died.

This time, though, it wasn't for entertainment.

The person I spoke with didn't know me or Samson. Yet during our conversation, she described things that felt remarkably consistent with his personality and with the relationship we had shared. Most importantly, she told me that Samson was grateful that I had made the decision to let him go. She described his final trip to the veterinarian as a "gallant effort."

That sounded about right. Getting Samson to any vet visit, including the final one, could certainly qualify as gallantry. At the time I contacted the animal communicator, I had also recently adopted Tina and Joe as four-month-old kittens. The animal communicator described Samson as taking on something of a big-brother—or perhaps grandfather—role with the kittens, essentially letting them know,

You guys have it good.

And then I asked the question that changed the experience for me.

I wanted to know…"Did Samson see my mom?"

After all, Samson was my mom's grandcat.

The animal communicator told me that what she saw was that the individual who received him was a woman.

Okay fine.

But then she said the woman who received Samson was wearing a blue dress with flowers.

My mother was buried in a blue dress with embroidered flowers.

I still don't know what to do with that.

Some Things Can Remain a Mystery

I don't share this story as evidence that animal communicators can speak with animals after death. I don't know that Samson communicated with this person. I don't know whether my mother received him. I don't claim to know exactly what happens to our companion animals when they die. Knowing is not faith, and faith is part of the mystery.

But I also can't say that the experience meant nothing to me.

It brought comfort at a time when I desperately needed it. More importantly, it gave me a way to imagine that although Samson was physically gone, our relationship had not simply disappeared, and the woman who had received him on whatever the other side is...was, herself, another great loss of my life. I have no problem conceptualizing my mom, dad, grandparents, etc. are together. But Samson? That was golden.

And years later, while interviewing participants for my research, I found myself hearing echoes of that same idea.

"He Is Around. Definitely Around."

As part of the broader theme of grief confrontation in my research, I identified a subtheme I called Pet Afterlife.

The majority of the people I interviewed described some form of ongoing "spiritual bond" with their deceased companion animal. About half specifically described believing in a pet heaven, while others spoke of their animals being in a "better place." Some described their deceased pets as guardian presences watching over them, and there were a few who believed their deceased animal's spirit was somehow present within a current companion animal.

These weren't simply descriptions of where participants believed their animals had gone. Again and again, they described ways their animals were still here.

One participant described hearing the distinctive rustling sound made by their beloved pet:

"He is around. Definitely around."

Another participant believed her deceased dog remained present through her current dog. When a memory of her dog unexpectedly appeared during our interview, she interpreted it as his presence and said, "Hi. I know you're here."

And then there was another story; we'll call this dog Johnny.

Johnny's person described a vivid dream in which his deceased dog walked into the room, jumped onto the couch beside him, placed a paw on his leg, and allowed himself to be petted before walking away. A family member suggested that Johnny had come to let him know that he was okay and no longer in pain.

He believed Johnny was in heaven.

And, he added with laughter, Johnny was probably "peeing on every bush up there." Johnny was still Johnny in pet heaven.

Beyond the Rainbow Bridge

Perhaps the finding that feels especially meaningful to revisit on Rainbow Bridge Remembrance Day is that, despite how frequently participants described spiritual connections with their animals, there were only a few people who referenced the Rainbow Bridge. Even then, they spoke about it more as a familiar concept than as a deeply held personal belief. The Rainbow Bridge offers a beautiful image: our animals cross into a peaceful place, restored from illness and pain, and someday we will be reunited with them.

But what I heard from many participants was slightly different.

The Rainbow Bridge says, we'll be together again. What emerged from my research was that these stories seemed to say,

You never left.

Pet loss research recognizes pet grievers may continue connections with their companion animals after death...something called continuing bonds. My research added to that understanding through the maintenance of spiritual connections and descriptions of heaven, guardian presences, dreams, signs, and even reincarnation—the sense that a deceased animal might remain present through another animal.

These experiences can also be considered alongside what we know about continuing bonds and African American bereavement traditions. Religion and spirituality have long played important roles in how many African Americans understand death and mourning. There is research that has described connections maintained with deceased loved ones through dreams, conversations, remembrance, and beliefs in an afterlife. Additionally, the African American home-going tradition itself can hold grief and celebration together: sorrow at physical separation alongside the belief that the person has transitioned somewhere beyond the hardships of this life.

However, my study does not tell us that African Americans share one belief about what happens to animals after death. We don't. But the stories participants shared suggest something worth considering: some of the spiritual meaning-making that helps us understand human death may also find its way into the bonds we share with animals.

Making Room for What We Don't Know

My animal chaplaincy work has given me another lens through which to consider these questions. Animal chaplains never diagnose or claim to speak for an animal. But we're taught to notice certain signals anyway—not as answers, but as a way to sit with an animal in whatever state they're in, and as a way to ask better questions of the humans who love them. I don't think accompanying someone through companion animal loss requires providing an answer about where their animal has gone. For some people, that answer is heaven. For others, it is the Rainbow Bridge. Someone else may experience their animal through dreams, signs, memories, or the behavior of another animal. Others may not believe in an afterlife at all.

None of those beliefs—or the absence of them—makes the grief any less real.

Perhaps what matters is that we make room for the questions and remain curious.

I still don't know exactly where Samson went when he died. I know what I believe. And I don't need to turn that belief into certainty.

So, perhaps remembrance doesn't have to be only about looking backward at the animals who once shared our lives—or forward toward the possibility that we might someday meet them again.

Perhaps we can also notice the ways they remain woven into our lives now.

In the stories we tell.

In the habits we still remember.

In dreams.

In another animal who suddenly does something exactly the way they used to.

In a sound that makes us look across the room.

In whatever makes us think, even for a moment:

You never left.