Tails of Grief and Love
When your pet dog or cat is put to sleep, you often leave the surgery with their empty collar in your hand. I have kept all my pets’ collars; they are never used by another dog or cat. Matisse’s collar is purple and chunky. Because he pulled so much on the lead, he wore a head collar, making his regular collar more of a marker of ownership and a holder for his name tag than anything else. A year after he died, I was asked to bring a meaningful object to a sociology lecture at university. I chose Matisse’s collar. As I spoke about its material, its purpose, and its significance, I unclipped it—and some of Matisse’s hair fell onto the desk. I stopped, unable to speak, overwhelmed with emotion. That moment changed the course of my life. My father had passed away just a few months earlier, and when he died, I received compassionate leave from work and extensions for my university studies. But when Matisse died—just six months before my father—I wasn’t offered any support. He had been ...
