It's raining tears for cats and dogs

Recently an email from friends carried sad news we had not hoped to learn. We had asked after the health of their dog, Smoky, a beautiful dark-coated Labrador. Last year, he'd had some precarious times with respiratory problems but, after surgery, had seemed to come round. Now he has died. Our friends are devastated.

While we had met Smoky on only a few occasions, I understand why. Smoky was one of those special animals who fits totally in the lives of his caretakers. Responsive and intelligent, he was very much a family member.

I'm certain he will be sorely missed and mourned with the respect accorded a dear friend of our own species. Our sympathy for the loss of Smoky is accompanied by our own feelings of loss.

In this same week, Nelson, a 20-year-old black and white cat whose staff/caretakers were my 102-year-old father-in-law, George, and our son, Jason, had to be put down after a spinal injury.

Nels had started out his kitten days as Jason's exclusively, and was named Elsie until time and development made Nelson a more appropriate name. After his staff duties were shared by Jason's grandparents, Nelson grew to take over the house as many of his race seem to do. He expected his tributes and he got them in his special spot before the TV and the numerous small totems he collected to surround himself as he curled up. His comings and goings, his lap leaping for petting formed a big part of the routine in that home, and his absence leaves a big emptiness.

It's true that pets come from many species, but there's something special about cats and dogs that earns them a special place in a family.

History teaches that cats were revered as gods by the ancient Egyptians. They seem, still, to command our respect. The domesticated dog's evolution from his feral forebears, the grey wolf, has been remarked by many scientists, especially the ethologist and Nobel laureate, Konrad Lorenz, in his elegant "How dog came to man".

It turns out that wolves are social predators that live in nuclear families consisting of a mated pair and their offspring, making their evolutionary descendants ideally suited for their place among our human families.

Loss brings memory of older loss. Years ago, when a dog seemed the last thing I needed, I became, despite my reservations, allied with a German shepherd, a foundling, who adopted me. I named her Demelza, after the character in the British soap, Poldark, whose calming personality the dog's resembled. Demelza became an ideal junior colleague in the treatment of many patients whose times of despair were often alleviated by the presence of a dog who could silently present herself for comfort at moments of intense sadness. I realised soon enough that I was also the direct beneficiary of Demelza's ministrations. We became inseparable. Which made it all the harder when she developed cancer and had to be put down. Her death was nearly 20 years ago, but I miss her still.

These animals take up a special place in our family lives. Not like children, whom we expect to grow and change and live separate lives. Nor friends whose sharing with us is reciprocal. No, it's something different. We cannot fully understand them, except through behaviour but they seem to understand us, anticipating our moods and even our movements. By the companionship they offer as we provide for their care, they bring out the most human part of us: sociability and extension of empathy. They help us to be the best we can be. Small wonder their loss is so painful. With their death, their going, we miss, for a time, a better part of ourselves.