Upon seeing the reaction of Charlie greeting his friend Seamus returning home from a day away at the vet, I once again marvel at the meaning of friendship, not just the amazing relationships that develop between humans or between humans and their animals but between animals.

On ordinary days, our animal friends peacefully co-exist. They might play together, eat together, snooze together, and when times get tough, they worry and empathize with one another. And when one “goes missing,” we feel their confusion and wish we could explain those difficult things and make our pets feel better. But how could we? We, as humans, have a hard enough time understanding and dealing with our pets’ illnesses and deaths. They become family; they are our children. My boys were the one unit I wasn’t willing to bargain away when divvying up the remnants of my former life. Take the stereo that I love so much, take the art that I love so much, take the material things, but the dogs and cats? Unequivocally off limits. They’re a package deal.

Seamus is obviously sore, quiet and needs some comfort tonight, and his pal Charlie is what he needs most. It must have been a long, hard day for Charlie, who must have wondered where Seamus had gone and why he wasn’t invited. One look (and sniff) of him upon his return, and Charlie realized he got the better end of the deal. This is why it is hard to have single animals. They are social units. Dogs like other dogs; cats like other cats; and cats and dogs like each other more often than not.

Our dog Shelby was pals with kitty Kayla, and when Shelby died, Kayla laid near Shelby’s empty collar left in the middle of the living room floor for weeks, if not months. An empty collar was my way of telling her that the friend who belonged to that collar was not coming back, and if Shelby’s collar was a comfort to Kayla, that’s the least I could do for my little friend. When Luna, our golden retriever, died suddenly, Kira wandered aimlessly around the backyard searching and searching for days and weeks on end. One day she just planted herself in the middle of the daffodil patch I had planted and looked so incredibly lost without her friend. They were Laverne and Shirley or Thelma and Louise. So what did we do?  The only thing we could do that would distract her: We brought home Charlie, a kindred spirit, a kindred setter. They were simply meant to be together.

Kira was an extraordinary dog. I’ve written a lot about her antics, and anyone who knew her would agree she was something else. She was mama to Charlie, and she and crazy cat Zuma were besties, playing and wrestling and snuggling all the time. On the night that Kira died (an at-home euthanasia done by a vet in front of our animals so that everyone got a chance to “comprehend”), when we carried her body out on a litter, Zuma went over to the window and howled the most guttural cry I’ve ever heard. It gave us chills. His heart was breaking. 

I’ve learned a lot from my animal friends, eleven of fourteen having been second-chance pets. They know what it’s like to be discarded. They know how good a second chance can be and they take nothing for granted. They live with incredible gratitude and joie de vivre, knowing just how good it is to be loved. God bless all our animal friends, especially those who have no one to adequately look out for them. Maybe one day in the next version of our lives, the roles will be reversed and animals will have dominion over humans. It’s certainly not the primary reason, but if you believe in karma, best to treat our animals right in this life.