Grief, Animals, and the Hard Mercy of Euthanasia
Saying the Word We Don’t Want to Say
Euthanasia—as people who love animals—it’s not something we want to consider.
If you live long enough with animals, you will eventually have to practice the hardest kind of love.
On the last day of January, my indoor/outdoor cat had been playing with the dog. He started yowling and was in severe pain. I assumed he had hurt something—sprained a leg, maybe bruised a hip. Something fixable.
I found an emergency vet and took him in. They took him back immediately and left me in the waiting room. It wasn’t long before the veterinarian came to get me.
He had a blood clot.
She told me that even if she referred us to the veterinary school at Kansas State University, they likely wouldn’t treat him. There was a specialist in Kansas City—there were no guarantees and that would mean waiting until Monday.
Maybe I’m practical. Or maybe it was because I could still hear him yowling, even though he wasn’t in the same room with me.
He was in too much pain.
I made the decision to euthanize him.
I was raised by a doctor. Early on, my dad told me that “passing away” was a euphemism. He preferred the truth. Death is death. And sometimes love requires that we stand in front of it without softening the language.
Still, knowing the word doesn’t make the decision easier.
When It’s Part of the Life—And Still So Hard
A Runaway Sue and her 2008 filly Runaway Prospect by Coronas Prospect.
Intellectually, I understand that animals rarely live as long as we do. Emotionally, it still catches me off guard.
In 2012, I lost my best mare—the last foal out of Grandpa’s great mare, Ala Secret Sue. She had five bouts of colic in as many months. Two we treated at home. One required a short stay at the local clinic. One meant a long night haul to Kansas State University.
And the last one ended with me making that same hard decision.
These racehorses are part of a business. They are bred, trained, and evaluated with practical eyes. So why does it undo me when I lose one?
This time it felt heavier, like more than just the loss of a horse. And I haven’t bred a mare since.
A Childhood Friend
Susan and Reed Man pole bending at the Kansas State High School Rodeo
My first real lesson in this kind of grief came when I was 21.
My childhood horse, Reed Man, had been given to me by my grandfather when I was nine. He was 14 when he became ill. Neurological damage. I could barely watch as they treated him. He had been my best friend through awkward teenage years—the keeper of secrets, the steady presence in a world that didn’t always feel steady.
He wasn’t business. He was my friend.
When I had him euthanized, it felt like something inside me fractured. Not just because he died—but because I had to decide.
Grandpa’s Great Mare
Ala Secret Sue died differently.
She had abscesses in both front feet. The vet hoped she would make it long enough to foal. He helped deliver her filly—a tiny thing he wasn’t sure would survive. But that baby was determined.
Three weeks later, Ala Secret Sue died in the night.
I had fed her the evening before. She looked fine. I wasn’t prepared when Mike came in the next morning and told me she was gone.
Maybe that loss was easier because the decision wasn’t mine. Or maybe it was easier because I had been bracing myself for it.
Grief still came—but it came without the weight of choice.
The Ones Who Slip Away
Zandy Parr, my amateur show horse, was family. He had traveled across Kansas and to shows in Arizona, Colorado, Texas, Oklahoma, and Missouri with me. He carried my children. He carried my dreams.
At 27, I found him dead in his stall one morning.
I was heartbroken. I miss him terribly.
There was something gentler about that grief. He had slipped away in the night. No emergency call. No sterile room. No pen in my hand signing consent.
It is a strange thing to admit, but sometimes it feels easier when they die without asking us to decide.
My First Winner
Less than a week after losing Zandy, I faced another goodbye. Easy Secret Sue—my first race winner, my best broodmare—was in liver failure. Bloodwork confirmed it. The vet said we could attempt to reverse it. It would return.
She was 21.
She had given me foals I was proud of. She was part of my grandfather’s legacy. I had already chosen not to breed her again because I didn’t want her to struggle under the weight of pregnancy.
So again, I chose.
And again, it hurt.
What Grief Really Is
“CS Bar — my grandfather Charles Socolofsky’s brand. Today, it’s mine too. A legacy carried forward, one story at a time.
What has made some of these losses harder than others?
Sometimes I think it isn’t just about the animal in front of me. It’s about what they represent.
The end of an era.
The last foal of a great mare.
The closing of a chapter Grandpa began.
The younger version of myself who believed some horses—and some seasons—would last forever.
Grief isn’t logical. It doesn’t measure market value or breeding records. It doesn’t care whether something was “just business.”
Grief is love with nowhere to go.
And when euthanasia is involved, grief often carries an added weight—the echo of the question: Did I do the right thing?
I have learned this much: choosing to end suffering is not a betrayal of love. It is love. The hardest form of it.
We don’t soften the word death. We can soften the experience. We can stand with them. We can stroke their neck. We can whisper gratitude. We can let our final act be mercy.
Still, knowing that doesn’t mean we won’t grieve.
Because when we love animals—horses, dogs, cats—we are signing up for eventual heartbreak.
And somehow, knowing that, we love them anyway.
Every story needs a soundtrack.
This is the one I’ve chosen for this post—sometimes because of the title, sometimes the lyrics, sometimes simply the feeling it stirs in me.
