08/05/2026
I am sharing this from a pet crematory page I am a member of...this is a very important read and this is why Bailey's Blessings Pet Crematory is and will always be different!!!
Last Friday night, we lost our beloved Sally.
The grief has been overwhelming, but today I want to talk about something else.
I want to talk about what happened after she died.
I’ve spent years working in death care. I’ve helped families through loss, advocated for better experiences, and have seen firsthand what compassionate care looks like. Never did I imagine that when it was my turn to say goodbye, the experience would leave me feeling so disappointed.
At the veterinary clinic, we were given one option: a large national pet aftercare provider. We were told Sally would be picked up in about a week and returned another week after that. That wasn’t what we wanted, so I began calling local providers.
The conversations were almost identical.
“How much does the dog weigh?”
“Here’s the price.”
No one asked her name.
No one said, “I’m so sorry.”
No one asked how we were doing.
One provider wouldn’t travel to us. Another simply said they weren’t open on Saturdays and to call back on Monday—as if grief follows business hours.
Eventually, I chose one of the largest funeral homes and crematories in our area because they also offered pet cremation. I hoped a business that serves grieving human families would understand the importance of compassion.
Instead, I experienced one of the coldest interactions I’ve ever had.
When we arrived, we weren’t invited inside. A woman met us at a side door, handed us a clipboard through the glass, and asked us to complete Sally’s information—her name, her weight, and whether we wanted anything from a tiny shelf of memorial products.
No one explained the process.
No one reassured us.
No one told us Sally would be cared for with dignity.
No one even acknowledged that we’d just lost a member of our family.
Then we were directed to the garage.
The garage doors opened to reveal two funeral vehicles parked inside. At the back, in full view, was the crematory.
Standing there, in a garage used for both human and pet aftercare, saying my final goodbye to Sally is an image I wish I could erase. Families should never have to experience that.
The following day, we heard nothing. I eventually called myself and was told her private cremation had been completed but she wouldn’t be ready until today.
This morning, I finally received a call.
The man on the phone said, “Miss Sally is ready.”
For the first time during this entire process, someone used her name. For a brief moment, I thought maybe the experience would end differently.
It didn’t.
We walked into the front lobby and found a man sitting on a couch talking on his phone. He looked up, held up one finger to tell us to wait, saying, “I’ve been on hold for 15 minutes.” Still on the call, he walked to a shelf, grabbed an urn, and brought it over.
My wife had to say, “Yes, that’s Sally.”
He handed us the urn and said, “Don’t drop that.”
As we turned to leave, his final words were:
“If you need us again, just let us know.”
That was it.
No “I’m sorry for your loss.”
No acknowledgment of Sally.
No compassion.
No humanity.
Just another transaction.
Thankfully, we have Sally home where she belongs.
But I can’t stop thinking about the thousands of families who may experience exactly what we did.
This post isn’t about seeking sympathy. It’s about asking our profession to look in the mirror.
If you work in veterinary medicine, pet aftercare, cremation, or funeral service, please remember this:
The family standing in front of you isn’t delivering a body.
They’re bringing you their best friend.
Their companion.
Their constant.
Their family.
You may handle hundreds of pets every month.
They only have one Sally.
One Max.
One Charlie.
One Bella.
One chance to say goodbye.
Never let efficiency replace empathy.
Never let procedures replace people.
Never let a grieving family feel like a transaction.
Because long after they forget what your building looked like or how much they paid, they will remember exactly how you made them feel.
Our profession can do better.
Our profession must do better.
For every family.
For every beloved companion.
For Sally.
