I’ve witnessed the passing of many companion animals, and on numerous occasions have had to console grieving parents. It all comes with the territory when you work in the animal welfare field.

But my experiences in no way prepared me for the death of my own companion animal.

My husband and I found Muriel on the side of the bed last Thursday morning. No warning signs. Something called feline hypertrophic cardiomyopathy, a heart muscle disease. It’s the number one cause of death for cats under the age of three. They call it “the disease in need of a press agent.” The vet assures us that her death was instantaneous — that we could not have suspected anything was wrong. She would have been four years old next week.

I miss Muriel so much. The three of us were a family. I can remember the day I brought her home, a tiny foster kitten who fit in the palm of my hand. Her eyes were still closed. She needed to be bottle-fed. Her chances for survival were slim. But she made it.

Our home feels empty now. Every night, I expect her to greet me at the front door. I listen for the sound of her nails on the cat scratcher. I wait for her to jump into a laundry basket of warm clothes. Nothing happens.

It’s been difficult to find ways to cope with Muriel’s passing. Especially since the loss was sudden and unexpected. Certainly it doesn’t help that our society has a tendency to scoff at the trauma of pet loss. But there are resources out there for those who are grieving.

During a time of strong and confusing emotions, it can be helpful to rely on friends and family who are willing to listen without judgment. One might cry, obsess with guilt or express anger, but a good listener will respect that each individual has a different and unique way of feeling the loss of a companion animal.

Some people aren’t fortunate to have had experienced a unique bond with a companion animal, and therefore may not value the intense grief felt when they are gone. I wasn’t prepared for the possibility that some people, even those very close to me, might try to invalidate my grief while trying to “help” me.

While friends and family are important, support also can come from strangers. On any given week, a pet loss support group meets in the Bay Area. These groups are a wonderful free resource. While the thought of talking in front of a group of unfamiliar faces is sure to cause some skepticism, being around those who are experiencing similar feelings is extremely comforting. A UC Davis pet support hotline (800-565-1526), staffed by veterinary students, also is a great resource.

I’ve found several books to be particularly helpful too, especially “Grieving The Death Of A Pet” by Betty J. Carmack and “Goodbye, Friend” by Gary Kowalski. Both authors suggest a tribute or memorial as a nice way to honor a lost pet and help heal grief. Not yet, but perhaps one day soon I’ll be inspired to create a scrapbook, paint a portrait or plant a tree in Muriel’s memory. Maybe I can become a much-needed press agent for this disease.

I thought I would be better prepared for the heartbreak of pet loss, having witnessed others go through it so many times. But in this short time, I’ve come to realize that grief is entirely individual and without complete understanding by others. As I try to contemplate my life without Muriel, it’s a comfort to know that there are resources available to help me cope. Maybe I’ll be able to see the sunshine again through this cloudy storm.

Tails of Marin appears every Saturday in the Home & Garden section of the Marin Independent Journal