Saying Goodbye to Gigi: A Mother’s Reflection on Supporting Your Child Through Pet Loss

Caught mid-lounge like the little royalty she is.

Kitten fever is real. Send help. 😻

Just two queens chillin’ on the patio.

Luca had wanted her own cat for a while. (We already had two cats and two dogs at the time.) This is also a story about supporting your child through pet loss — something no parent ever feels ready for. This is also a story about supporting your child through pet loss — something no parent ever feels ready for.During Covid, we chose to drive two hours away to a small-town shelter that really needed help with adoptions during that difficult time. I’ll never forget looking into the back seat and seeing her face — she was holding Gigi, laughing and crying at the same time. It was one of the most endearing moments I’ve had with Luca. The bond started right there, and it was so sweet to watch.

Gigi was about six months old when we adopted her, and she crossed the rainbow bridge at only six. While we had four other animals, Gigi kept to herself. Her person was Luca — that’s all she needed. I think when Luca finished high school and wasn’t home for a couple of years, it was hard on Gigi. She really missed her person. When Luca moved into her studio apartment, Gigi smothered her momma with so much love — sometimes annoying, but honestly one of her best traits. She loved Luca deeply.

I’m sharing my daughter’s story because life is unpredictable. When you lose a pet unexpectedly and have to make a decision quickly, grief hits a whole different level. As we grow up with our pets, we always think we’ll have more time with them — but sometimes, we don’t. When you can’t prepare for a loss, it can literally take your breath away. You’re in shock. It’s traumatic. It jolts you awake to just how fragile life is.

Imagine being 18, with your very first pet, taking her in because something’s wrong — and then hearing she has cancer. It’ll cost thousands of dollars, it’ll be really hard for Gigi to go through, or… you can end her life on a high note. Barely an adult, and you have to make that decision all by yourself.

Luca and I live four hours apart right now. When she called to tell me she was at the vet with Gigi and they were planning to do surgery that afternoon — I tried, as gently as I could and without panicking, to say, “Luca, have they talked to you about what to expect after they remove this tumor? Did they guarantee they can get it all? The cost of aftercare? The surgery? Chemo if she needs it? They won’t know what they’re dealing with until they open her up — this is really big, Luca. You need to turn around, go back in, and ask these questions.”

I could tell she was already in that trance of shock. Bless her heart, I really think she believed it would be as easy as cut her open, take the tumor out, stitch her up. We all wish that’s how it works — but it hardly ever does. It broke my heart that she had to ask all these new, hard questions alone. The quickest I could get to her was four hours. I was on standby — if she’d called and said “Come now,” I would have been in my car in seconds.

While I was feeling her pain and worry, I was also seeing dollar signs. I knew the decision would come down to what was affordable and predictable — and that’s so hard for anyone at any age going through pet loss. As I guided her through this, I said, “What do you want most for Gigi right now?”“I want her to be pain-free and have a good rest of her life.”“And can the vet promise that after they remove the cancer?”“No, Mom. They can’t.”

That’s when she knew. That’s when she had to decide.

Luca had experienced pet loss before — as a family, we’ve said goodbye to many of our animals over the years. Like kids do, she always found a way to get on with life a little faster. I’ve always been open with her about old age struggles, when it’s time, and how to know. She’s witnessed many of our pets being euthanized, and she’s always given them that last kiss on the nose as they cross over. But this time was different. This time, it was her pet. Her first cat, her own little shadow, and she had to make this choice all by herself.

She technically had the weekend to spend with Gigi, with an appointment Monday — but when she picked her up Friday afternoon, she saw a different Gigi. A Gigi who wasn’t herself, who was hurting. She broke down and decided to say goodbye right then. As much as I wanted to say, “Wait for me, let me be there with you for this…” — it was her choice. I respect her so much for how she loved Gigi enough to do that.

So here I was, hours away, unable to fix any of it — and the only thing I could do was write her a letter. A letter full of love and hope, with gentle reminders that grief is a process. Losing a pet this way is deeply traumatic. And all we can do is hold the love tight and ride each wave as it comes.

What I’d tell Luca — and anyone — is this: grief isn’t something we rush through. It comes in waves, in stages, and it’s different for everyone. The more you allow yourself to feel it, the more space you give yourself to heal. Some days will feel heavier than others, and that’s okay. Just always try to come back to the gratitude — because what a gift it was to be loved by Gigi. And the memories? They last a lifetime.

P.S. We never stop being moms — and sometimes that means sneaking a little healing in where we can. This whole blog? Just my sneaky way of loving Luca forward, one word at a time. Wink, wink.