When Love Has Fur: On Grief, Love, and the Bonds That Remain

by PJ Valenciano Grief wears many faces. It can look like an empty spot on the bed, a quiet bowl in the corner, or a collar that still holds the scent of sunshine and fur. When you’ve truly loved an animal—when their paws have walked through your heart—the word “grief” feels too small. 

What we feel is a love that overflows, too vast to hold in one body.

My days are shaped around caring for animals—feeding, nurturing, tending to their needs, and gently accompanying them when it’s time to go. Some departures feel like waves that slowly pull away. Others, like lightning—sudden and jarring. 

There are moments I find myself wondering, “Can I open my heart again? Can I carry another loss?”

And then I remember—I already have. And with each one, my heart has grown more spacious.

Astro Boy, Fabio, Willow, Boomer-- our dogs. There are so many kittens whose names I still speak like prayers. Some shared years with me. Others, only a few sunrises. 

Each one lived fully, loved fully, and brought something irreplaceable. Every goodbye taught me to love more deeply. Each loss shaped my understanding of presence and tenderness.

Some days, I wonder if I have anything left to give. But love continues to pour out of me—because every soul I've cared for has expanded my capacity to love. 

Loss became my teacher. It didn’t close my heart—it opened it further, stretching it into spaces I didn’t know existed. I’ve learned to love without conditions, without guarantees. My practice has become a quiet ritual of gratitude. I place my hand over my heart and say, Thank you for allowing me to love you. It was an honor. And every time, it truly is.

Sometimes, I imagine them gathered in a warm field of light, at peace, watching over this world. I hear their voices in my dreams—light, joyful, full of the same wonder they had in life. 

“Look at her,” says Fabio with a golden wag of his tail. “She keeps wondering if she gave enough. But I already felt it—the whole of her heart.” A soft white-and-orange kitten nestles beside him, purring with ease. “She wonders if we knew how much she loved us. Of course we did. Every touch, every gaze, every ‘I love you’ was a gift. We carry it still.”

Their energy remains light, joyful, and expansive. They don’t cling or hold on. They understand the dance of life and the beauty in letting go. And so, when I feel them now, it’s not through pain but through warmth.

If you’re reading this with a heaviness in your chest, I want you to feel seen. 

This grief you carry is filled with meaning. It reflects how deeply you opened your heart. There’s no need to rush the process. Moving forward isn’t about forgetting. It’s about remembering with peace and living with the love they gave you, in your breath, your actions, and your care for others who come after.

Many teachings speak of animals as guides—pure beings sent to awaken something within us. I’ve come to believe that, too. They remind us of stillness, presence, loyalty, and joy. When they return to the light, they leave their essence with us—woven into our days like golden threads.

As you walk through this path of healing, pause for a moment. Light a candle. Whisper their name. Let your tears fall—they are sacred expressions of love. Ask yourself: 

• What did they come to teach me? 

• How did they change the way I love? 

• What part of them lives on in me now?

  
  

Grief reveals devotion. And love—especially the kind we share with animals—moves beyond time. 

I’ve come to see that they are still with us. I feel them in the rustle of leaves, the warmth of sunlight, the eyes of new companions who come into our lives as if they’ve always known us. 

They don’t leave us behind. They trust us to carry their light.

So, live fully. Feel the wind. Rest in the sun. Laugh when your heart remembers joy. That is how we keep their spirit close—by embodying the love they taught us.

And if you listen closely—in the hush between your thoughts, in the stillness of the evening—you might feel them there with you. Sometimes, a whisper comes, not in words, but in sensation, in warmth:

"I’m with you. I feel light and free. Thank you for loving me—your love was my home." "I’m in the soft things now. In the light. In the play. That’s where you’ll find me." "When your heart opens again, I’ll be there too."

No goodbyes—only “thank you” and “I’m still here, in a different way.”

This letter is a quiet prayer. Each word carries Reiki, wrapped in softness. I offer it as a companion for your heart—something to hold when the world feels too still. You are surrounded by love. You are carrying a legacy that continues to bloom.