Grief shows up in strange ways. One minute you’re fine, the next you’re crying in the pet aisle because you saw their favorite treats. Or scrolling through Etsy for hours, trying to find the perfect portrait that captures the sparkle of your beloved furry friend.
That’s exactly what I was doing in 2024 looking for something to honor Roxy and Poppy. I wanted a piece of art for my new home. But the more I searched, the more I realized nothing felt like them or like me with them. OR they were too expensive for my budget. And then I got an idea….
What if I painted it myself?
I haven’t really painted in years, at least not seriously. But the thought of creating something for them with my own hands felt…. Meaningful. Personal. A little terrifying of course and also I wasn’t sure Id have the skills anymore. I used to draw horses and Disney characters, rarely humans and had never tried dogs. I didn’t want to do them a disservice so I had another idea…..how about paint by numbers?! Now don’t laugh because it does sound childish but when I sent off the photo I curated of the two of them (their lives didn’t cross over each others) and received the piece back, I nearly died at the intricacy of all the colors and numbers – tiiiiiiny spots had numbers in it.
I got to work.
Every weekend I did a few more numbers until just this past Christmas I was able to finish it and I am so pleased with the results. I recorded a time lapse most of the times I painted. It was SO cathartic and the end result was as accurate the photo as it could be, I definitely wouldn’t have been able to accomplish the same result freehand. I was thrilled.
Why Art Feels Like the Right Path
I’ve read a lot about art therapy over the years. As someone who lives and works in the world of grief, I know how powerful creativity can be as a form of expression. Art helps bypass the analytical mind and go straight to the heart. It doesn’t require answers or solutions. Just a willingness to feel and explore. The paint by numbers situation allowed the controlling perfectionist in me to create something I could be proud of (and want to display) and the creativity of simply putting brush to canvas was so relaxing and meditative.
The result? I love it. I wanted to paint Roxy and Poppy not just how they looked, but how they felt. Their energy. Their quirks. Their place in my life and heart. The photos I chose of them and blended and the chosen background, all reflect me and them and I couldn’t be happier.
Not an Artist? Doesn’t Matter.
You don’t have to be anyway good at art to do this. This isn’t about creating a gallery-worthy piece, its just for me and because the hard work has been done for you, you just have to show up. It’s about sitting with grief in a way that’s active, but gentle, meditative and deeply connected. I turned on some Disney classics – don’t ask me why, this just felt right and I cried and I concentrated. A weird tribute maybe but a slow, sacred, splattered kind of love letter it became.
If You’re Grieving A Furry One Too...
Maybe you're not ready to paint. Maybe your creative style looks like journaling, or building a photo collage, or writing a poem. That’s beautiful too. There’s no “right” way to remember a pet. There’s just your way.
But if the idea of picking up a brush or pen or piece of clay whispers something to you, I encourage you to follow it. You don’t have to show anyone. You don’t have to be “good.” You just have to start. I have learned a lot recently about the act of starting over seeking perfection.
And if you do start, know that you’re not alone. I’m over here, surrounded by tissues staring at my painting where I tried to capture two of the cutest and sweetest souls, I’ve ever known Roxy and Poppy.
They were worth every brushstroke. And so is your baby.
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