Alright – so today we’ve got the honor of introducing you to Maryglenn Warnock. We think you’ll enjoy our conversation, we’ve shared it below.

Maryglenn, looking forward to hearing all of your stories today. Setting up an independent practice is a daunting endeavor. Can you talk to us about what it was like for you – what were some of the main steps, challenges, etc.

I learned some incredibly valuable lessons when launching Paws to Remember. 1. Trust your instincts. If something doesn’t feel right, don’t try to force it.
2. Patience is a virtue.
3. A sense of humor helps immensely.
4. Be careful where you place your trust. There are seemingly reputable organizations that prey upon and exploit people who have dreams of launching businesses.
5. Keep your circle small–and surround yourself with people who are smarter, more accomplished and more knowledgeable than yourself.
6. Optimism absolutely MUST be tempered with reality.
7. Never ever ever ever ever give up.

Awesome – so before we get into the rest of our questions, can you briefly introduce yourself to our readers.

My name is Maryglenn Warnock—but before I explain who I am, I should probably take you back a few years and introduce you to Garcia.

My life changed radically on May 13, 2000. That was the day I realized a lifelong dream and brought home Garcia, a tiny, spirited Old English Sheepdog puppy. I was head-over-heels in love with Garcia almost immediately—a good thing, as Garcia was a mischievous, strong-willed, wild, energetic, incredibly trying (but fluffy!) dog who grew and grew and grew—and then grew some more. Topping 130 pounds in his prime, Garcia was a force to be reckoned with.

And I loved him madly. I’m not sure I could’ve loved Garcia more had I given birth to him myself. My life revolved around Garcia. I talked about Garcia nonstop, showed pictures of Garcia to anyone who would stand still, marveled at the wonder of Garcia, missed him when we weren’t together, and relished my role as Garcia’s mom.

But being Garcia’s guardian was fraught with challenges. Garcia was a strong and independent animal with a propensity towards what we could call “questionable behavior choices”. I would be remiss if I did not cop to referring to my time with Garcia as an eleven year power struggle.

Behavior issues aside, Garcia was beset with a bevy of health challenges. He nearly died after ingesting an enormous hunk of a plastic toy at the age of 6. At 8, he developed a rare autoimmune disease, Immune Mediated Retinopathy, which caused him to go blind. He suffered from debilitating arthritis, joint issues and back problems. In the end of his life, he could barely stand.

As his health failed, my husband and I went to great lengths to preserve, and later sustain, Garcia. We sought specialists, we made numerous visits to the emergency veterinary clinic, we did acupuncture, underwater treadmill therapy, cold laser therapy, special vitamins and supplements, chiropractic treatments, and kept the road hot to our regular veterinary clinic. There might have been an errant Reiki treatment or two in there, but I can neither confirm nor deny those suspicions. I can confirm that I prayed for miracles on the daily.

From about the time he was 9 until the day Garcia made his transition from this earth, we rather foolishly waged a valiant effort to stop time or at least slow it down. Every day with Garcia was a gift. And every day I had with him only made me want one more day with him.

By late 2008, caring for Garcia dominated my life and consumed my days. On an average week, Garcia had 4-5 appointments, which my husband would refer to as Garcia’s “personal appearances.” During that time, it seemed like we were almost always on the run, and on the road, shuttling between the vet’s office in West Nashville, rehab in Goodlettsville, and sundry other places. And when we weren’t on the road, I was making sure Garcia had the medicines he needed, that he was fed on a regular schedule and got as much exercise as his body could bear.

In my head, I knew that my time with Garcia was fleeting, but in my heart, I still wished for one more day, every day.
By early 2011, Garcia required assistance getting up and going outside. His mind was still with us (as was his appetite) but his body was giving out. People assured me I would know if and when the time came to make a decision to end Garcia’s suffering.

On June 6, 2011, I knew it was time. At just after 11 that Monday morning, I watched my beloved Garcia take his last breath in our vet’s office. I held his paw, wept, told him how much I loved him and thanked him for the 11 years we had together.
I don’t remember leaving the vet’s office, driving home, or much about the rest of the day. I was numb, in shock, and not even capable of processing that my Garcia was gone.

The weeks that followed yielded much of the same. I felt largely disconnected and numb. I picked up Garcia’s ashes on a Friday, but couldn’t make sense of the fact that my large, buoyant Garcia was now nothing more than ashes in a wooden box. Conceptually, it made sense, but in my state of shock, I was unable, or maybe just unwilling, to grasp the reality.
When the loss finally started to sink in, I found it harsh, painful, and confusing. I missed Garcia terribly. I looked for signs that he was still present in spirit. I longed to dream about him every night, and to receive some sign that he was okay, that I’d done the right thing, that the bond we shared wasn’t really broken.

Initially, I was at a loss for what to do with myself. All of the time I devoted to caring for Garcia was suddenly free—and I didn’t have the faintest clue how to spend my days. In the time of his declining health, I had become Garcia’s primary caretaker, and that was my identity. Guardian of Garcia/Caretaker of the Sheepdog was WHO I was. I was helping keep my magnificent Garcia alive, and once he was gone, it was as if I was no longer myself. I didn’t know who I was without Garcia.

By July, I was increasingly bereft and desperate to keep Garcia’s memory alive. I just couldn’t—wouldn’t—accept that Garcia’s life was over and that was it. So I planned a funeral for him. On August 8, 2011, nearly 50 people who knew and loved Garcia attended the funeral. That simple ritual of memorializing, celebrating and honoring Garcia gave me a sense of peace that I hadn’t felt for a very long time. Garcia’s funeral, although unorthodox, was pivotal: it was the point at which I was able to say goodbye and begin the grieving process for real. That funeral changed my life.

In the months and years that followed, I grieved Garcia deeply. I sought the help of a professional therapist—also an Old English Sheepdog owner—who helped me navigate the various stages of grief (some of which I languished in and revisited time and again) but slowly but surely, I found my way back.

If you had asked me in the time of BG (Before Garcia) if I thought pet grief was real, I would’ve said yes. But nothing—absolutely nothing—could’ve prepared me for the anguish, the heartbreak, the profound, almost all-consuming sorrow of losing my beloved Garcia, losing what had become my purpose, and my identity.

Even in the depths of my grief, and even when I felt terribly alone, I knew I wasn’t the only one who had, or would, struggle so mightily after the loss of a pet. An idea began to form and while it took nearly 8 long years, I finally decided to do something about it.

In early 2019, I charted a new course and founded Paws to Remember. A pet aftercare business that serves grieving pet owners in their time of need, Paws to Remember provides such services as: pet bereavement counseling on both a group and individual basis; and pet memorial services, celebrations of life, and funerals.

Working through the Association of Pet Loss and Bereavement, I completed my certification to become a Pet Bereavement Counselor. I became an ordained minister and Pet Funeral Officiant. And since then, I’ve eulogized and celebrated companion animals from cats to Chihuahuas. I’ve counseled owners who’ve just lost pets and those whose pets have been gone for years. I’ve handed out hundreds of Kleenex and needed many Kleenex for myself. I’ve talked to pet lovers, veterinarians, specialists, and business owners about loss, about grief, about grace. I’ve written prayers for devastated owners, I’ve talked about anticipatory grief, euthanasia remorse, the four primary levels of pet-owner bonding and the concept of disenfranchised grief. I’ve worked with rescue groups, veterinarians, shelters, and even started a monthly pet loss support group here at Nashville Humane Association. I’ve presented at the international conference of the world’s largest trade organization of funeral directors, crematory and cemetery owners. I’ve taught a class at a mortuary school. I’ve even been quoted in national magazines as an expert in pet loss, and have been widely published on the topic of pet bereavement. I’ve officiated countless events, memorial services, and days of remembrance.
And through it all, I’ve discovered that grief over the loss of a pet is real, it’s normal, and it’s something so many people experience. The saying “when you love deeply, you grieve deeply” holds true. I know that first hand . I’ve seen pet grief from all sides—and with each passing day, I’m more and more convinced of the need for this type of service.
And here’s why:
Ultimately, grief over the loss of a pet falls squarely into a category that is known as disenfranchised grief.
In my training to become a pet bereavement counselor, my instructor, the late Dr. Wallace Sife, introduced the concept of “disenfranchised grief” which is grief that is not validated by society, friends, family or others. Disenfranchised grief results when others do not understand the significance of the relationship with the deceased, or when someone is unaware of the relationship and its importance to the bereaved.

Pet loss is a perfect example of disenfranchised grief. Pet lovers—especially those who are strongly bonded to their pets—understand. But society as a whole does not always have an appropriate understanding or respect for the bond between humans and pets and, consequently, does not understand how painful it is to lose a beloved pet.

All too often, pet lovers may experience well-meaning people offering terribly unhelpful words in their time of need:
“Are you going to replace the pet?”

“Why don’t you just get another cat/dog/hamster?”

“Don’t be sad. It was just a pet.”

While insensitive and hurtful, I maintain that such comments are typically borne of a lack of understanding, and not of ill intent. Can you imagine using such statements upon the loss of a human?

“Are you going to replace the spouse?”

“Why don’t you just get another grandmother?”

“Don’t be sad. He was just your best friend.”

Granted—this is an exaggerated example, but one that makes an important point. Grief over the loss of a human companion versus grief over the loss of an animal companion aren’t always treated the same.

The feelings arising as a result of losing an animal companion is simply not the same as losing a human companion. However, those feelings are not any less valid.

Can you imagine feeling the need to apologize over grieving the loss of a spouse or a parent? Of course not.

Grief is hard enough. It can mean feeling overwhelmed, sad, angry, despondent, numb, guilt-ridden, and sometimes even relieved. But, throw in a healthy dose of fear, shame, anxiety and worry, and it is quickly apparent that the grief pet owners face is unique.

What has become increasingly apparent in my work is that pet loss grief among pet owners is becoming more accepted—and our intense feelings of despair over the loss of a pet companion is something that is becoming more understood.

When I was getting trained as a pet bereavement counselor, Dr. Sife introduced the concept of what he referred to as our pets “becoming the angels of our better selves.” It took me a couple of years to grasp that concept–but was he ever right. Garcia is absolutely, wholeheartedly the angel of my better self. I realized that without living through the loss of Garcia, I would have never realized the need to help those grieving their pets. Paws to Remember wouldn’t exist. Garcia–and especially the grief I felt upon his loss–made me better..

People regularly ask how I can do this type of work–and I admit it is incredibly hard. But it is far more rewarding than it is difficult. I am so touched by how willing people are to allow me to walk beside them in their worst days: how brave and strong and open my clients are in sharing their innermost fears and struggles with me–a virtual stranger to most of the people I counsel; and I am ever heartened when I get a call months after I’ve counseled someone who felt ready to open his or her heart to a new pet (those are the best days). I have so much admiration and respect for anyone who is bold enough to meet grief head-on, walk through it, and emerge on the other side. How lucky I am to be part of that process.

Do you think you’d choose a different profession or specialty if you were starting now?

Without question! The first time I officiated a pet service–for an absolutely cherished chihuahua named Pearl–I had this wonderful, stop-me-in-my-tracks moment where I thought, “THIS is what I am supposed to be doing.” How funny that it took me nearly 50 years to figure that out. (I should add it was worth the wait.)

One thing I have learned from this venture is the beauty of timing. I would not have been ready to start Paws to Remember right after Garcia died. I needed time to heal, to grow and to learn. During the eight years between Garcia’s passing and my launching the business, I also lost my father, which gave me a whole new perspective on grief and the importance of funerals.

I can say without question that timing is everything. Even starting a business just on the cusp of the COVID pandemic turned out to be a good time to stop, reflect, refine and revisit. Among its many lessons, the pandemic reinforced the importance of pivoting. I will never forget hosting a virtual pet funeral in April 2020–and having almost 2500 people watch it online. Without the pandemic, I would have likely never even considered virtual services.

Coming full circle, I absolutely would do this all over again–even learning the hardest lessons–because I feel that same “this is what I’m supposed to be doing” feeling every time I counsel someone, host a pet loss group, speak at a conference, write an article, talk to someone about grief, or officiate a service. Again, it was worth the wait

Training and knowledge matter of course, but beyond that what do you think matters most in terms of succeeding in your field?

What a great question. I think being conversant in the language of pets is key. I’m a pet lover first; a business owner second. I get it–and I have immense respect for the bond between person and pet.

Contact Info:

• Website: www.pawstoremembernashville.com
• Instagram: pawstoremember.nashville
• Facebook: www.facebook.com/pawstoremembernashville

Image Credits
Professional Photos — headshot in green jacket and similar shot with Major, my Old English Sheepdog: Photographer: Lacey Maloch, Strays to Baes