You're probably here because someone you care about is hurting and you don't know what to do about it. Maybe they just said goodbye yesterday. Maybe it's been a few weeks and you can tell they're not okay, even though they keep saying they're fine. Either way, the fact that you're searching for how to help says something good about you — most people look away from this kind of grief. You're trying to look at it.
So let me tell you what actually helps, from someone who's been on the receiving end.
First, understand what they're actually going through
When I lost my golden retriever, Oxmo, the hardest part wasn't only the loss itself. It was how invisible the loss was to everyone around me. There's no funeral for a dog. No bereavement leave. No casseroles. The world expects you back at your desk the next morning, and it quietly judges you if you're still visibly sad a month later.
Your friend isn't grieving "a pet." They're grieving the one who was there for every ordinary day of the last decade — the greeting at the door, the walks, the weight against their leg on the worst nights of their life. Research consistently finds that losing a dog can hurt as much as losing a human family member. If you take one thing from this page, take that: treat their grief like it's real, because it is.
What to say (and what to never say)
You don't need perfect words. You mostly need to avoid the terrible ones and then stay present.
Say:
- "I'm so sorry. [Dog's name] was such a good dog." — Saying their dog's name is the single most powerful thing you can do. Grieving people ache to hear that name spoken out loud by someone else.
- "Tell me about him." Then actually listen.
- "This is a real loss. Take all the time you need."
- Nothing at all, honestly, if you're there. Presence beats words.
Never say:
- "Are you going to get another one?" — This lands like asking a widow when she's remarrying.
- "At least he had a good life." — Every sentence that starts with "at least" minimizes.
- "It was just a dog." — If you've read this far you'd never say this, but you may need to gently run interference when someone else does.
What to do
Grief makes people unable to ask for help, so don't ask "let me know if you need anything." They won't. Just do things:
- Check in on a random Tuesday two weeks later. Everyone shows up in the first 48 hours. Almost nobody shows up in week three, which is often when it's hardest — the shock has worn off and the world has moved on. A simple "thinking about you and Cooper today" text is worth more than anything you could buy.
- Share a photo or memory you have of their dog. If you have a picture of their dog on your phone, send it with a line about what you remember. This costs nothing and I promise it will be kept forever.
- Mark the calendar. The dog's birthday, or the anniversary of the goodbye. A one-line message on that day, months from now, is the deepest form of "I see you."
- If they had a routine built around the dog, help fill it gently. The morning walk that no longer has a reason. An invitation to walk with you instead — not to talk about it, just to walk — can be a lifeline.
If you want to give them something
Flowers wilt in a week and sympathy cards get read once. If you want to give something, give something that helps them do something with the grief — because that's what grieving people are desperate for and can't articulate: somewhere for all of it to go.
Some things that genuinely help:
- A framed photo of their dog — especially one they've never seen, if you have it.
- A donation to a shelter or rescue in their dog's name. Quiet and meaningful.
- A custom portrait or ornament of their dog, if you know them well enough to get it right.
- A grief journal made for this. I'm biased here, and I'll be honest about why: after losing Oxmo, I wrote The Dog Grief Guide — part book, part journal, built specifically to be handed to someone in the early weeks of losing a dog. It has gentle reflections on why this hurts so much, journaling prompts for the things they can't say out loud, and a page to memorialize their dog with a photo. It exists precisely because there was nothing like it when I needed it. If you'd like to send it directly to them with a personal note, you can do that from our site — it arrives as a gift, with your words, not a receipt.
Whatever you choose, the gift matters less than the message underneath it: your grief is real, and I'm not looking away from it.
The long game
Here's the part most people miss. Supporting a grieving friend isn't a one-time delivery of condolences. Their grief will outlast everyone's attention span — including, at moments, yours. The friends my readers remember, the ones they tell me about in letters, are never the ones who said the perfect thing at the start. They're the ones who said their dog's name six months later. Who leaned in when everyone else had long changed the subject.
Be that friend. It takes so little: a name spoken out loud, a text on a Tuesday, a memory shared without warning. That's the whole job.
Your friend is lucky to have someone who went looking for how to do this right.
The Dog Grief Guide is a journal and companion for grieving the loss of a dog — written by someone who's been there. If you'd like to send it to your friend with a personal note, you can gift it directly here. We'll make sure it arrives gently.
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