Animals leave paw prints on your heart, and if you are lucky, on the places that shaped your life too.

By Sam Conroy, Scottish Humanist Celebrant/Glasgow, Edinburgh and all of Scotland

There are seven of them.

Bailey. Titch. Stella. Lenny. Brogan. Goose. And Dexter.

Seven animals who loved me across the most important chapters of my life - and whose ashes I carried, earlier this year, to one of the most beautiful places I know. A place that has held my heart for most of my life. It felt right that they should rest there. And it makes me smile, even now, to think of them running free in amongst the river and the trees.

Bailey was our rabbit. Meant to be a dwarf rabbit - absolutely nothing of the sort. He lived outside until a particularly brutal winter arrived and we brought him in. He never went back out. And somewhere along the way he became best friends with Titch, our cat - a tiny runt of a farm kitten I rescued when the farmer was going to get rid of her. She ran things entirely on her own terms, did Titch. But she was extraordinary. Fiercely loving, especially in old age.

Stella was everyone’s cat. Literally. I lost count of how many times she was found curled up on a neighbour’s bed, completely at home, utterly unbothered. She once climbed into someone’s car without them knowing and went to work with them. That was Stella. But she was also the bravest soul I’ve ever known.

She came home one day badly injured - the vet believed someone had kicked her with a steel toe cap and broken her back. It didn’t look good. But she never gave up on me, so I never gave up on her. She had her tail amputated and went on to live another eight years. A little street mascot with no tail and absolutely no idea she was supposed to slow down.

It was Lenny who found her that last time. I thought she was missing. He kept squealing, over and over, until I followed him to the spare room where she was cowering under the bed. He never left her side. Lenny came to us as a kitten, after Stella, and she mothered him from the start. He was a big, gentle, deeply loving cat. Their relationship was exceptional.

Brogan was a tiny rescue - timid from the very start, shaped by a difficult beginning she never quite forgot. She was loving in her quiet way. I still carry her a little differently to the others, if I’m honest. A gentle guilt I can’t fully explain. I think sometimes the ones who needed the most patience stay with us the longest that way.

Goose was the rat. Yes, the rat. I had two - Maverick and Goose - and she was an absolute character. The vet adored her. She was mischievous and funny and full of life, and her favourite place in the world was tucked just under my jumper, curled into my neck.

And then there was Dexter.

My little shadow. Every morning, without fail, he would come in before I was even awake and lie on my pillow beside me. He was my everything. I lost him in 2024 and I was, and still am, devastated in the way you only are when you lose the one who knew you best.

I wrote the blog below when I was ready to meet that grief properly - all of it, for all of them. I’m sharing it here because if you’ve ever loved an animal and lost them, I want you to know that what you felt was real. The grief was real. And you are not alone in carrying it.

They leave pawprints. Every single one of them.

Bailey. Titch. Stella. Lenny. Brogan. Goose. Dexter.

Blog

In March, I came back to a Highland Estate I’ve visited for most of my life.  A place so steeped in history, it’s woven its story into mine.  It’s actually my home away from home and over the years my animals have heard just about every tale from this place (it’s probably a good thing that animals can’t talk, as much as we would like them to!).  They’ve heard about its history too – it’s just one of those places where folklore is present everywhere! And as a family, we shared stories with many, many a glass of wine by the fire with a dog or two (or three!) at our feet. 

And it’s not just the dogs that came here over the years.  Rabbits, Hamsters, Rats – they’ve all had their turn at exploring these grounds and hearing about its stories.    So it felt right to bring them back with me, the animals who loved me as fiercely and faithfully as I loved them and through so many chapters of my life.  I scattered their ashes around the estate, letting them rest in a place that holds so many of my memories – and it makes me smile, even now writing this, that they are running free in one of the world’s most beautiful places, in amongst the river, and the trees.     

I’ve always believed that animals know us in a way that humans rarely do.  They do it without judgement.  They have no conditions.  They don’t care about the things that we think matter.  They don’t notice if we are wearing the same jumper three days in a row or if we are having a bad hair day.  They don’t mind if we are tired (well unless it delays their walk, obviously!) – or if we are feeling stressed or not quite feeling ourselves.  That just makes them stay closer and they love us anyway, and of course, we love them right back and probably more because of it.  They meet us exactly where we are, every single time.

So when they go, the silence they leave behind is enormous.  We grieve not just a companion, not just a furry part of our family.  We grieve the loss of something that’s been steady, and constant.  A simple uncomplicated, unconditional love, that’s asked nothing of us.  Just that we are simply there.   

Animal grief is one of those things we often carry in silence, as we can sometimes feel it’s less valid than other kinds of loss.  But it isn’t.  It’s the ache of losing a companion who shaped our days.  Who gave us a routine and softened even the hardest of edges, loving us with such simplicity, us humans could really learn from it.  There is nothing silly or soft about mourning that.  In fact, I think it’s really brave.   It’s a real love and a real loss and it’s a pain we feel for a long time.

But it also carries a guilt, a guilt we don’t talk about enough and a part we again, often carry in silence.  Most of us will have had to make the horrific decision to end their life, and even though we know it was the kindest thing we could do, it still leaves its mark.  It’s an act of love that feels like betrayal, even though it isn’t.  It’s a trauma in its own right.  The weight of choosing compassion over our own heartbreak, a decision we make out of love, knowing it will break every part of our own heart.  And it does.  But it deserves to be acknowledged, just as much as the grief itself.  If you’ve felt that too, you are not alone, but maybe now, you’ll feel less lonely.      

I really struggled until this year to take their ashes with me – Bailey, Goose, Titch, Brogan, Lenny, Stella and Dexter.  I think because Dexter was still really raw and recent and because it made it all so final and I had to face into that.  And if I’m honest it had taken me a long time to understand that a grief like this doesn’t just shrink because the world thinks it should.  It stays until we are ready to meet it.  And when we do, when we finally give it a place to rest, however that looks, it becomes a little less sore.   We learn how to carry that love, that unconditional love we felt, that little bit differently and we remember them fondly from the very depth of a heart they’ll always live. 

Sam is a devoted animal lover whose home is rarely without a collection of rescue cats, dogs and garden wildlife. She believes the love we share with animals is one of the most pure and unconditional love bonds we will ever know.

Thinking about a humanist wedding in Scotland and want to know more? I’d love to have a conversation. I’m based in North Lanarkshire and cover Edinburgh, Glasgow and all of Scotland.

[Get in touch here](https://www.samconroycelebrant.com) — let’s talk about your story.