
“You are allowed to be this sad about a dog.”
For the person who is grieving a dog and quietly wondering if they are allowed to be this wrecked about it.
40 printable 5×7 cards. Buy one, print it at home, write in it tonight. Every card comes with a designed inside and an A7 envelope template, which is the part almost nobody else includes.
The range this shop was built for. Twelve cards, each written for one particular kind of loss rather than one general sorry.

For the person who is grieving a dog and quietly wondering if they are allowed to be this wrecked about it.

For the person who made the decision, stayed in the room, and now feels like they did something unforgivable.

The card you send at week six, when the flowers are gone and everyone else has moved on.

For the anniversary nobody else has in their calendar.

For the week before, when the date is booked and the dog is still here.

For the house where one dog died and the other one is still waiting at the door.

No bridges, no heaven, no promises about what happens next. Just the plain fact that he had a good life.

For when sorry for your loss has been said forty times and none of them helped.

For the loss of a mum, spelled the way you actually say it.

For the person being told it was a release, who wanted to scream.

For losing an animal who was company, and the reason some days worked at all.

For a team who wants to send something to a grieving colleague and has nothing to send.
December is the month grief comes back, and almost nobody makes a card for it. Four cards and a printable ornament that comes out of the box every year.

For the person whose first December without their animal is coming, and who is already dreading it.

For the person standing in front of the box of decorations, not knowing what to do with one of them.

For sending in the week before, to someone who is about to sit down to a meal with a space on the floor.

For the person being asked over Christmas dinner whether they have thought about getting another one.
Eight cards for the season as it actually goes: muddy paws, an early walk, and somebody who needs telling they are allowed to sit down.

A Christmas card for the woman whose season still starts with a walk.

A Christmas card about the quiet hour before the bright day.

A Christmas card about presence, from the one who never needed presents.

A Christmas card for the gift that never needs wrapping.

A Christmas card for the long golden evening after everyone has eaten.

A Christmas card that hands her a chair at her own table.

A first Christmas card for the newest set of paws in the family.

A Christmas card from the one who loves the paper more than the present.
The same honesty, written for cats. Six cards, including the one about the warm spot the sun still moves across.

For the person who is grieving a cat and quietly wondering if they are allowed to be this wrecked about it.

For the person whose cat chose them, every evening, for years.

For the person who made the decision, stayed in the room, and now feels like they did something unforgivable.

For the person going back through the last few months looking for the sign they should have caught.

For the person who keeps finding the empty places, the windowsill, the end of the bed, the chair.

For the person grieving one animal while another one searches the house for her.
Made for Mother's Day, which has been and gone for the year. Six of the ten say nothing about the date and read fine any week you need them.

For the dog mum who would rather be on the sand than opening an envelope. Four front variations.

For the one who has not sat down since March.

For the woman who existed before the role, and still does.

For a first Mother’s Day, in the middle of the hardest year.

For the mum who resets on a trail, not a couch.

For the one doing it on her own, without saying so.

Daughter to mother. The one about staying.

For the mother whose love was never loud.

For the one who taught you to look properly at things.

The funny one. For a fur mum who will get the joke.
For the days when “I’m sorry” doesn’t feel like enough. Five rituals, five guided audio pieces, printable cards and reflection pages.