She was my friend.

Mourning the loss of our friends’ companion animals is oftentimes undervalued.

When my beloved cat Stella died earlier this year, my best friend Erica, who lives in Los Angeles, was devastated. Not just for me, but because, as she put it, Stella was her friend. 

We had lived near one another in LA, and Erica would help me take care of Stella when I’d travel. I should mention that Erica is incredibly allergic to cats, and my darling kitty was certainly no exception. It’s almost as if Stella knew that she was somewhat toxic to Erica, because of all the people who would come around the apartment, Erica was her favorite. Cats are so innately contrarian; it’s adorable. 

I’ve been thinking recently about the deep grief and mourning that comes when pets pass away (I know "pets" isn’t really anyone's favorite word, as it implies ownership over another being, but I’m going to use it here anyway since it’s less clunky than constantly saying “companion animal”). As the co-parent to, ah-hem, seven rescued animals (four dogs, one fospice dog [that’s foster + hospice], and two cats) — some of whom are between older and ancient — this is always somewhere on my mind. I’m all too familiar with the enormous ache you wake up with the days and weeks and months (and sometimes years) after your pet dies. 

But, as an “animal person” who believes in the law of attraction, many of the closest people in my life also have several pets, so there is frequently a friend who is freshly mourning their own loss and another friend who is dreading the inevitable decision they know is coming. (None of this includes my Facebook feed, which is basically an ongoing pet eulogy … thanks a lot, algorithms.)

And when that happens — when my friends lose their pets — it impacts me greatly. Not only because of my empathy, knowing that my loved ones are waking up with that tell-tale ache, but because, just like how Erica cried when Stella died, these furballs were my friends, too. In many cases, I enjoyed being with them and we formed our own sort of connection. 

I had that with Erica’s dogs, who would sweetly put their heads in my lap and ask for ear scratches. Or with our friends’ (we call them “The As” because their names all start with “A”) dog, Lilly, who was perhaps the gentlest soul I’ve ever known. Or with BamBam, Michelle and Christa’s big yellow cat. Or Bobby’s funny little “kite dog” (walking her was like flying a kite), Luna. They were my friends.

To be clear, the sadness we feel when our friends’ pets die is absolutely not even in the same universe as the sadness our friends are feeling. There is no more significant pain, I think, than having your life intimately entwined with someone, day in and day out, only to have them removed from that day-to-day. As many of us have experienced first-hand, losing our own pet is destabilizing and shattering. The empty food bowl we can’t bear to wash. Their favorite little fluffy bed in the corner. The random tennis ball in the back of the yard. It’s so goddamn sad!

When Stella died recently, I stopped doing most things for a little while. And, for once, I was honest about why. I didn’t make excuses or beat around the bush. Instead, I told my employers, my dinner dates, and myself that Stella suddenly died of cancer and I need time to process it, and I don’t know how much time, and no, I’m not really doing OK, but I will be, eventually.

Mariann once told me about a book called The Loss of a Pet by Wallace Sife, which validates the pain of losing your own companion animal. In a world where, by and large, society still doesn’t really treat this major life event as the enormous loss it is, books like this one can help normalize the process of grieving your furry friend. 

But I have yet to find any resource — book or otherwise — that even so much as acknowledges the loss we feel when our friends’ furry friend dies. 

Erica lives 2,600 stupid miles away. And yet a couple months after Stella died, Erica texted me saying she missed her. My favorite photo of the two of them is when Moore and I had a gathering at our apartment in West Hollywood and started playing Cards Against Humanity. Stella, naturally gravitating toward Erica, sat down beside her, intrigued, and Erica promptly shared her hand with Stella. Though I don’t remember exactly what happened next, I would suspect that Erica (and Stella) won that round. Stella was brilliant (as is Erica).

The loss of our friends’ pets can rattle us. All animals are, of course, individuals capable of feeling pain and joy. If left to their own devices, these darlings can have complex social lives. 

Chickens, for example, have intricate social structures and hierarchies, known as "pecking orders," which are influenced by factors such as size, age, color, and their social surroundings. Pigs are highly intelligent and form close bonds with one another, creating social hierarchies. Cows are herd animals that develop deep connections within their groups, too. Like Erica and I, cows have best friends. They recognize one another and can become stressed when separated from their companions. And, as they’re notorious for, goats also live in social groups, establishing hierarchies and forming strong social bonds. The list goes on.

As any of us who have ever loved a companion animal knows all too well, dogs and cats (and guinea pigs and ferrets and gerbils, etc.) are no exceptions when it comes to forming deep emotional connections and displaying a wide range of behaviors that reflect their unique personalities. 

This is precisely what unites any living being with one another: a will to live, a desire to connect, and an instinct to find safety. Regardless of our species, that is what bonds us. 

The animals with whom we share our homes are not just pets, but family members who bring joy, companionship, and comfort to our lives. Their ability to express love, loyalty, and even empathy makes their loss deeply painful. Our bonds with them are profound, reminding us that all animals — whether on farms, in homes, or in the wild — are conscious beings deserving of care and respect. Losing them leaves a lasting impact, a testament to the importance of our relationships with these remarkable creatures. 

And, vitally, this is not only true of the animals we care for in our own home, but any animal with whom we have connected. 

Erica told me a story recently about a time when she was driving home and got a call from a friend who asked if Erica was in a place where she could talk about something difficult. Erica said she was driving and would be home soon, and her friend told her to call back then. The news was that the friend’s dog, a darling that Erica knew well, had passed away. Years later, it still strikes Erica as deeply moving, as her friend was thoughtful enough to deliver the news gently in a place where Erica could absorb its magnitude. The friend understood that this news would be just awful for Erica to hear. She got it.

In moments like these, I’m reminded that the bonds we form with animals, whether they are our own or those of our loved ones, are never superficial. They shape our lives, offering comfort, laughter, and companionship in ways that transcend the simple (and flawed) term "pet." These animals — our friends — become woven into our stories, our routines, our hearts.

When we lose them, or when our friends lose them, it’s a reminder of how precious that connection was, and still is. Even across the miles, Erica missing Stella, just as I do, speaks to the depth of those bonds. Maybe it’s something we should talk about more, not just as a private grief but as something that touches us all — an acknowledgment that love, in all its forms, matters. 

Whether it’s for a human or an animal, that connection deserves to be honored. And when a friend loses someone they've loved, we feel the weight of that absence too, as if their presence had quietly become part of our own lives.