Imprints, Paw Prints, and the Sacred Art of Letting Go

It’s been more than a week…

When life pulls the rug out from beneath us, our creative instincts tend to go where the ache is, at least mine does.

I stood in my kitchen with a mop in my hand, staring down at the spot where Stilly’s bowl still rested, empty. He didn’t come meowing over, even though I looked for him. My mind knew he wouldn’t, but my heart still hoped he would. Just days before, he had sat right there, old and rickety, happily lapping up a Churu.

And there, dried onto the wood floor, was a single, dusty paw print.

I couldn't bring myself to wipe it away.

A mop wipes away the prints from the floor.

A cloth wipes the prints from the glass.

And the wind smooths the prints left in the dirt.

In that utter sadness and stillness, the crystal hanging in the window spun, and beams of rainbow light danced across the floor...

I smiled as I realized something precious: paw prints are really just the reminder of the imprints pressed directly into the soul—and those can never be mopped away.

I spent the next few days feeling overcome by the loss of a little being who had been part of my daily routine for 15 years… the sunny spaces I no longer had to tiptoe around to avoid stepping on his tail, opening the fridge without him begging for a treat. Each time that ache caught my chest, I wrote. I looked at photos and smiled, I still spoke to him, like he was right there.

In the days leading up to assisting Stilly onto his next great adventure, we entered the excruciating terrain of anticipatory grief.

A few years ago I remember seeing a piece of art, in one of my art in therapy trainings, it was called “the weight of grief.”

That image always stuck with me.

I remember thinking we have it backward. We should celebrate birthdays the way we honor people at funerals—a full-blown pause to celebrate life, not just another year come and gone with a few blown-out candles, but surrounded by friends and family telling funny stories, passing around photos, and speaking life and love aloud.

The days leading up to Stilly’s passing carried that exact heavy realization.

Anticipatory grief is a uniquely agonizing ache because the goodbye unfolds while they are still breathing right beside you.

You know the threshold is fast approaching, and the instinct to preserve every trace of them takes over completely.

You find yourself frantically committing everything to memory—the steady rise and fall of their chest, the softness behind their ears, the way the late-afternoon light catches silver-tipped whiskers, the faint, comforting cadence of a purr.

You take mental snapshots of the most mundane routines, desperate to bottle their essence before their physical form slips away. You are already mourning their absence while trying to pour a lifetime’s worth of love into whatever borrowed hours remain.

Then comes the moment right after.

You don’t want a single thing to shift. You don’t want to move a blanket, wash a food bowl, sweep up a stray clump of fur, or disturb the dent left on the sofa cushion.

There is a primal fear that if anything moves—if the air in the house changes, if the routine is altered by even an inch—their presence will begin to evaporate. We cling to the physical stillness because we are terrified that stepping forward means leaving them behind.

Tucker texted me from school. He knew how brutally hard it would be to walk back through the front door without Stilly there, and he pleaded to freeze everything—to not move a single item, to let the house stay exactly as Stilly left it.

You see, through all of the inevitable shifts, moves, and growing pains of a young life, Stilly was his constant. From the years of tucking that furry body under the covers like a living stuffed animal to the quiet reassurance of having him around when childhood gave way to growing up, Stilly was the unshakeable heartbeat of his world.

I’m not sure anything can truly prepare you as a mother for that exact moment.

You are drowning in your own sea of grief, your own heart shattered on the floor, and yet you are called to be the emotional anchor for your child who needs you now more than ever.

You realize you don’t have to have the answers; you just have to sit on the floor in the wreckage together and hold the silence, you know you can’t take it away from them, and you pray that each passing hour will become less sad... more peace.

As a therapist I’ve sat with clients over the years who were in the throes of difficult decisions like this, and I always seemed to fall short. I know the depth of the unconditional love of our pets, and the heartbreak around the fact they cannot speak to us in words.

How can the best thing to do for them, also be the hardest?

For nurturers, pet loss is complicated by a unique, biting shadow a guilt-ridden loop that whispers in the dark: Did I do enough? Did I wait too long? Am I doing this too soon? Am I failing him?

When you love someone so purely, holding life and death in your hands feels like an unbearable weight. In the thick of that agonizing fog, Dr. Kelly Chandler from Love Always Vet offered my breaking heart a single question.

She asked:

The room went entirely still.

My immediate, gut-level answer was no. Because keeping him as he was meant keeping him in decline, keeping him in discomfort, keeping him in a tired body that could no longer do the things his spirit loved.

In an instant, that question stripped away the guilt and returned the focus to where it truly belonged: unconditional love.

It shifted the perspective from my desire to cling to his physical presence, to his right to comfort, dignity, and release.

I sat there wishing I had held that exact question in my therapeutic toolkit for the countless clients who have sat across from me over the years, tearing themselves apart on the brink of this very threshold. It is the ultimate compass when your compass feels shattered.

The Grace of an In-Home Goodbye

Having Dr. Kelly come to our home was the single greatest gift of this entire process.

I hope and pray that for the rest of my life, I am never presented with any other option for my furbabies. There were no slippery metal exam tables. No terrifying car rides with nausea and trembling. No harsh fluorescent lights, strange antiseptic smells, or chaotic waiting rooms filled with barking dogs and ringing phones.

That peace was especially sacred to me because of the haunting trauma of losing our Golden Retriever, Dennis (da-best dog) a few years ago.

With Stilly, everything was different. He remained in his kingdom.

He stayed on the “pouf” he’d claimed as his own a few years before, despite many luxurious pet beds being offered to him, enveloped in the familiar scents of home, with a sunbeam shining in the window, at Tucker’s request.

He was surrounded exclusively by the people who adored him, and held in absolute, reverent quiet. He transitioned in pure peace, knowing only safety, warmth, and devotion.

Having Dr. Kelly enter our home transformed what could have been a traumatic clinical procedure into a quiet, holy ceremony of gratitude. It was an honor to walk him to the veil in the very sanctuary he spent fifteen years filling with love.

Beyond the setting itself, having someone with such an experienced, gentle spirit navigate that sacred threshold brought an impossible ease to our shattered hearts.

From the delicate care she took pressing his final clay paw print, to leaving behind the tender wisdom of a Mr. Rogers book on healing, to the unhurried, generous patience she offered while we poured every last drop of love into his sweet form—she didn't just provide a service. She held the room so we could let him go in peace.

I’m not sure how Dr. Kelly does what she does, but I’m forever grateful for the experience she lead us through.

In the silence that follows, the spirit naturally reaches out, searching for meaning and reassurance that love doesn't simply vanish into the ether:

• Israel Kamakawiwoʻole’s tender, ukulele-strummed chords of Somewhere Over the Rainbow playing on the radio at the vet’s office shortly before it was time.
• The flowers suddenly blooming in the pot on the patio, the one where I’d sprinkled some of Rio’s ashes, right underneath the goofy smile of a wooden “welcome” bear standing watch at the front door, permission to go home…
• Looking up at the evening sky the night he passed to see a crisp, silver waxing crescent moon—a mirror reflection of the crescent marking Stilly carried proudly on his back for fifteen years.

Hope.

And rainbows…

I’ll never forget taking Rio-Rio (our greyhound) to the football field once last time, her legs had given out months before, and she wouldn’t be running like the wind, it was a hot spring day. Suddenly, the sky opened up and it started pouring, Rio stood, tall, staring out, suddenly the rain stopped and a beautiful rainbow appeared, she lifted her chin to the sky, and I whispered, “okay girl, okay.”

Later that day, we set her to rest under a willow tree.

With every single pet passing in my life, I have received a rainbow. Sometimes it arrives within mere moments—just before or immediately after they take their final breath. Other times, it paints the sky in the quiet days that follow, gently reminding me that the bridge between here and wherever they are is unbroken.

This time was no different, though its arrival took my breath away from thousands of miles away. A dear friend reached out from Belize, whatsapp-ing an image of a magnificent, vibrant double rainbow arcing across the sky with a simple note: “I think this is for you.”

She didn’t know Stilly had passed, she just knew that where the rainbow was, it was meant for me…

Hey Stilly... I whispered...

Ironically I'd told Stilly that someday long after he was adventuring in a new place, I'd be doing wildcat rescue work in Belize...

In that moment, grief softened into pure awe - a celestial confirmation that love knows no geography, no physical bounds, and no final goodbyes. I took that as a hint he approves of my plans.

I think what surprised me most, is that we live in a time where remembrance has evolved into an art form. We don’t just bury our grief in shoeboxes anymore; we weave our companions into the fabric of our daily lives.

Etsy is full of beautiful ways to honor our furbabies.

From soft wind chimes that ring when the breeze catches them—sounding just like their collar tags jiggling down the hallway—to smooth stones hand-painted with their likeness resting in the garden, to delicate jewelry carrying a pinch of their ash close to our beating hearts. We imprint them onto our physical world because they have permanently imprinted our souls.

Animals hold up an unblemished mirror to our truest, most innocent selves. They loved us when we were younger, messier, and still figuring out who we were. They asked for nothing except our presence.

The physical paw prints will slowly wash away, but the soul imprint endures forever.

A Letter to Stilly -

Our big cuddly boy, who loved his people more than anything...

You were my masterclass in patience and living in the present moment. You taught me about being better - more patient, more understanding…

For years my sweet boy pleaded for me to find you at bedtime, so that he could tuck you under his sheets like a stuffed animal, and for years you competed with Brave for that spot in his beddy. And when Tucker got too old for Brave, you were still there, reminding him we’re never too old for cuddles.

Thank you for fifteen years of unwavering grace to my son, even when he carried you upside down.

Thank you for bringing me blue-bellies, and for impressing me with your ability to scale an Oak tree, thank you for always putting up with Walter eating the tootsie rolls you left him... thank you for making Commander get up at 4am and racing him downstairs for a treat (or two, or three) so we could chat on life and love, thank you for embracing my bonus boys and bringing them so much comfort at times when they needed a cool little dude like you...

Thank you for drowning out the world with radial engine purrs when things felt too loud, and for curling into my side when the words were hard to find, thank you for forgiving me on the days I wasn’t available to show you how much I appreciated you there.

Moonshine Still - You carried a crescent moon on your back, but you left all the stars tucked inside my heart.

Stilly Willy- Stilly Kitty- Still-Still - you will always be the coolest cat, and I'm forever grateful you picked us.

Lt Dan - you gave us a lot of good laughs over the past few years, and months…

You turned people who weren't "cat people" into a warm lap.

and you get to "wildcat" forever now... - I will look for your moon Stiwwy Wiwwy.