Pet memorialisation is having a post pandemic bump, as owners turn to bone preservation, life-like taxidermy and personalised urns to ease their grief
7 min
In San Jose, Calif., a preserved Chihuahua skeleton stands on a bed of fur atop an antique library card catalog. A photo of the dog, Shirley, peers down on the living-room display.
Mari Moore, a 45-year-old paralegal, paid around $6,500 to preserve her dog’s bones, a process called bone articulation, after the rescue dog, who was at least 10 years old, died in 2020.
With a new appreciation for the brevity of life, she and her husband, Kirk Moore, 45, started therapy to improve their relationship after Shirley died.
“When Shirley passed, our whole lives changed. We really realised that we want to appreciate each other,” she said. Now, they visit the shrine almost daily, especially during fights and difficult days. “It reminds me of real, pure, unconditional love, and it makes me want to be better.”
Mourning owners are memorialising their beloved cats and dogs at a rate not seen in over a century, when Victorian-era pet owners frequently taxidermied deceased companions, said the Moores’ taxidermist, Lauren Kane of Precious Creature Taxidermy in Redlands, Calif.
Lifelike taxidermy and bone articulation can cost thousands of dollars. But urns, some made of bronze or inlaid with ornate mother-of-pearl designs, are a more common and accessible choice for people who want to honour their pets and integrate a memorial into the design of their home, said Tim Murphy, executive director and chief executive of the Casket & Funeral Supply Association of America. The trade organisation supports professionals in funeral services for humans and, increasingly, for pets, he said.
In 2023, about 33% of funeral homes offered pet-care services, up from 26% in 2021, according to the National Funeral Directors Association, a professional organisation for funeral-services professionals in Brookfield, Wis.
Demand has heightened since the pandemic, when bonds grew stronger as people spent more time at home with their pets, said Donna Shugart-Bethune, executive director of the International Association of Pet Cemeteries and Crematories.
While pet urns usually cost $50 to several hundred dollars, customisation can push the expense into the thousands, said Murphy. Sentimental pet owners frequently commission artists to make custom sculptures of bronze, papier-mâché, wood or pottery as vessels for pet ashes, said Coleen Ellis, the executive director of the International Association for Animal Hospice and Palliative Care.
“There is not too much of a limit on what people are willing to spend on their pets. I actually find that people are willing to spend more money on their pets than on their human loved ones,” said Nikki Nordeen of Terrybear, a St. Paul, Minn.-based supplier of memorial items to the funeral industry and pet-loss professionals.
While pet urns are usually smaller and less expensive than those designed for humans, Nordeen said some people are choosing personalised, high-end urns that rival or even exceed the cost of traditional human urns, she said. Without customisation, Terrybear’s pet urns retail for about $50 to $400 compared with an average $120 to $800 for traditional urns, said Nordeen.
In Manhattan, Ill., a $250 square wooden urn is disguised as a shadow box, showcasing three photos of a cocker spaniel mix named Bucket, her collar and a tag that identified her as blind.
Kate Becker, a 36-year-old critical care nurse practitioner, and her husband, veterinarian Scott Becker, adopted two dogs—Bucket and Mr. Pickles—in 2014. Four years later, she said they built a house with a light-filled guest bedroom where Scott played guitar to decompress after difficult days.
But Kate’s life changed when her husband died of cardiac arrest at age 40 in 2020, and Bucket went into kidney failure and had to be put down a year later.
“Scott and I did not have any children, so my dogs 100% got me through,” she said. “Losing Bucket—that was really hard, especially so soon after Scott passed.”
Kate placed Scott’s urn, a box with a sea-like glass exterior, with Bucket’s urn on a dresser in the guest bedroom, with candles and her late husband’s ball cap.
“I’m grateful that Bucket is still part of my home,” said Kate, who said she limits the special items displayed to maintain an uplifting space for meditations, with Mr. Pickles by her side.
Often, mourning pet owners drape a collar over the urn’s neck and arrange the pet’s favourite toys around it. Designers recommend creating photo walls and using shadow boxes to display fur, whiskers, toys and collars. Plants can be placed near urns to represent the continuation of life in a home after a pet’s death, said interior designer Jeannelly Hartsfield of Ivyleaf Interior in Powder Springs, Ga., who has helped clients create memorial displays in their homes.
The cedar wood urn of Ruby, an Australian shepherd-labrador, sits on a table next to Lisa Daoust’s living room fireplace, surrounded by a favourite toy squirrel and dried flowers.
In the corner where Ruby liked to nap, Daoust, a 59-year-old retired teacher in Murietta, Calif., hung a roughly $270 photo designed by EverAfter. The Florida-based company says it shines light through crystals created with a pet’s ashes to generate unique images.
The urn, with a “Ruby-Rue” nickname nameplate by Furever Loved in Lake Elsinore, Calif., was included with the cremation, which cost about $200, she said. Depending on a pet’s size and services included, owners usually pay several hundred dollars for cremation, a fraction of the cost of human cremation.
Daoust rescued Ruby in 2002, two years before she married her husband, retired Department of Defense firefighter Jason Daoust, 51. Ruby saw Daoust through the death of her brother in January 2022 before dying in March 2022, several months before Daoust’s mother-in-law passed away. The combined grief was devastating. But finding ways to honour loved ones has helped her process her loss, she said, adding that she also has memorials for her mother-in-law and brother in her home.
“Our relationships with family and friends are so much deeper now. We don’t criticise, and we don’t judge so easily. Because in a snap, life could be gone,” said Daoust.
People frequently place pet urns in living rooms on shelves or fireplace mantels, where owners can process their pet’s passing by talking about their companion with visitors. Or, owners sometimes place them in the pet’s favourite place to spend time, whether that be in a garden or in a sun puddle in a home office, said Ellis.
Though interior designers and Feng Shui practitioners generally advise that people keep bedrooms a place to focus on rest, some keep ashes in their bedrooms when their loss is fresh, said Laura Cerrano, founder of Feng Shui Manhattan, a New York City-based consulting firm.
Vivianne Villanueva Dhupa, the former owner of a pet crematory and a pet hospice facility in the San Diego area, says she encourages people to place a memento where they would expect to see their pet.
“It helps with the grieving to have something to focus on, because it leaves such a void, physically and emotionally,” she said.
Dhupa has three urns in her own living room. The shelves hold a roughly $125 black ceramic urn for her black cat who died several years ago and a $395 poodle-shaped ceramic urn figurine for a poodle-mix dog who died in September. On a coffee table is a $260 white heart-shaped urn with a decorative gold heart for a Brussels griffon who died in December. She also has several stones etched with her pets’ names in the garden where her dogs liked to play, she said.
One highly customised urn sits on top of a piano in a Houston living room. The ceramic, 3D-printed sculpture of a dog in a claw-footed tub peers up with timid eyes amid family photos and snapshots of the collie named Darby.
Lauren Shafer, a 40-year-old marketing manager at Lone Star College-Houston North, and her husband James Shafer, a 48-year-old bass player, rescued Darby around 2010. Darby, a quiet dog that tended toward anxiety, jumped into the empty bathtub for safety whenever uncertainty came his way. When Darby died in 2015, they spent about $1,200 for the custom 3D-printed urn by Foreverence, a custom urn design and manufacturing business in the Minneapolis area.
“Splurging on a custom-designed urn is, I’m sure, not something that everybody can do, but it sure helped me to get through it a little bit easier,” said Lauren.
Urn makers add pets’ names, dates, nicknames, poems and other sentiments, which usually costs about $25 depending on the design, said Chris Christian, co-owner of Christian-Sells Funeral Home in Rogersville, Tenn. Unique custom artwork, such as pet-shaped sculptures created by hand or 3D-printed, can cost several thousand dollars.
“People want an urn or memorial item that is representative of how they viewed their pet,” said Nordeen. For her two fluffy, white Samoyeds, she chose urns with a white shimmery finish and paw prints around the sides. It’s a design that typically costs around $180 apiece, plus an additional $120 to be etched with their names, nicknames and the years they were born and died, she said.
For Mari Moore, the process is beginning all over again: In January 2024, her other Chihuahua, Laverne, died. But Mari said that this time she is hopeful about her future as an “empty-nester” as she takes on new challenges and carves out new parts of her identity beyond being a “pet mom.” She celebrated Laverne’s life with about 100 friends by hosting a fundraiser with taco and churro trucks for the City of San José Animal Care & Services centre.
The skeleton tribute seemed an appropriate way to remember Shirley because the rescue dog with numerous health issues lost much of her hair by the end of her life, said Mari. But Laverne will be fully taxidermied, positioned as if she is sleeping on a bed. The process will take about two years and will cost over $10,000, but Mari said that for her, it’s worth it to honour her pets.
“Everybody who comes over says, ‘Wow. This is beautiful,’” she said. “I really feel like we did a good job honouring them.”
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No trip to Singapore is complete without a meal (or 12) at its hawker centers, where stalls sell multicultural dishes from generations-old recipes. But rising costs and demographic change are threatening the beloved tradition.
6 min
In Singapore, it’s not unusual for total strangers to ask, “Have you eaten yet?” A greeting akin to “Good morning,” it invariably leads to follow-up questions. What did you eat? Where did you eat it? Was it good? Greeters reserve the right to judge your responses and offer advice, solicited or otherwise, on where you should eat next.
Locals will often joke that gastronomic opinions can make (and break) relationships and that eating is a national pastime. And why wouldn’t it be? In a nexus of colliding cultures—a place where Malays, Indians, Chinese and Europeans have brushed shoulders and shared meals for centuries—the mix of flavours coming out of kitchens in this country is enough to make you believe in world peace.
While Michelin stars spangle Singapore’s restaurant scene , to truly understand the city’s relationship with food, you have to venture to the hawker centres. A core aspect of daily life, hawker centres sprang up in numbers during the 1970s, built by authorities looking to sanitise and formalise the city’s street-food scene. Today, 121 government-run hawker centres feature food stalls that specialise in dishes from the country’s various ethnic groups. In one of the world’s most expensive cities, hawker dishes are shockingly cheap: A full meal can cost as little as $3.
Over the course of many visits to Singapore, I’ve fallen in love with these places—and with the scavenger hunts to find meals I’ll never forget: delicate bowls of laksa noodle soup, where brisk lashes of heat interrupt addictive swirls of umami; impossibly flaky roti prata dipped in curry; the beautiful simplicity of an immaculately roasted duck leg. In a futuristic and at times sterile city, hawker centres throw back to the past and offer a rare glimpse of something human in scale. To an outsider like me, sitting at a table amid the din of the lunch-hour rush can feel like glimpsing the city’s soul through all the concrete and glitz.
So I’ve been alarmed in recent years to hear about the supposed demise of hawker centres. Would-be hawkers have to bid for stalls from the government, and rents are climbing . An upwardly mobile generation doesn’t want to take over from their parents. On a recent trip to Singapore, I enlisted my brother, who lives there, and as we ate our way across the city, we searched for signs of life—and hopefully a peek into what the future holds.
At Amoy Street Food Centre, near the central business district, 32-year-old Kai Jin Thng has done the math. To turn a profit at his stall, Jin’s Noodle , he says, he has to churn out at least 150 $4 bowls of kolo mee , a Malaysian dish featuring savoury pork over a bed of springy noodles, in 120 minutes of lunch service. With his sister as sous-chef, he slings the bowls with frenetic focus.
Thng dropped out of school as a teenager to work in his father’s stall selling wonton mee , a staple noodle dish, and is quick to say no when I ask if he wants his daughter to take over the stall one day.
“The tradition is fading and I believe that in the next 10 or 15 years, it’s only going to get worse,” Thng said. “The new generation prefers to put on their tie and their white collar—nobody really wants to get their hands dirty.”
In 2020, the National Environment Agency , which oversees hawker centres, put the median age of hawkers at 60. When I did encounter younger people like Thng in the trade, I found they persevered out of stubbornness, a desire to innovate on a deep-seated tradition—or some combination of both.
Later that afternoon, looking for a momentary reprieve from Singapore’s crushing humidity, we ducked into Market Street Hawker Centre and bought juice made from fresh calamansi, a small citrus fruit.
Jamilah Beevi, 29, was working the shop with her father, who, at 64, has been a hawker since he was 12. “I originally stepped in out of filial duty,” she said. “But I find it to be really fulfilling work…I see it as a generational shop, so I don’t want to let that die.” When I asked her father when he’d retire, he confidently said he’d hang up his apron next year. “He’s been saying that for many years,” Beevi said, laughing.
More than one Singaporean told me that to truly appreciate what’s at stake in the hawker tradition’s threatened collapse, I’d need to leave the neighbourhoods where most tourists spend their time, and venture to the Heartland, the residential communities outside the central business district. There, hawker centres, often combined with markets, are strategically located near dense housing developments, where they cater to the 77% of Singaporeans who live in government-subsidised apartments.
We ate laksa from a stall at Ghim Moh Market and Food Centre, where families enjoyed their Sunday. At Redhill Food Centre, a similar chorus of chattering voices and clattering cutlery filled the space, as diners lined up for prawn noodles and chicken rice. Near our table, a couple hungrily unwrapped a package of durian, a coveted fruit banned from public transportation and some hotels for its strong aroma. It all seemed like business as usual.
Then we went to Blackgoat . Tucked in a corner of the Jalan Batu housing development, Blackgoat doesn’t look like an average hawker operation. An unusually large staff of six swirled around a stall where Fikri Amin Bin Rohaimi, 24, presided over a fiery grill and a seriously ambitious menu. A veteran of the three-Michelin-star Zén , Rohaimi started selling burgers from his apartment kitchen in 2019, before opening a hawker stall last year. We ordered everything on the menu and enjoyed a feast that would astound had it come out of a fully equipped restaurant kitchen; that it was all made in a 130-square-foot space seemed miraculous.
Mussels swam in a mushroom broth, spiked with Thai basil and chives. Huge, tender tiger prawns were grilled to perfection and smothered in toasted garlic and olive oil. Lamb was coated in a whisper of Sichuan peppercorns; Wagyu beef, in a homemade makrut-lime sauce. Then Ethel Yam, Blackgoat’s pastry chef prepared a date pudding with a mushroom semifreddo and a panna cotta drizzled in chamomile syrup. A group of elderly residents from the nearby towers watched, while sipping tiny glasses of Tiger beer.
Since opening his stall, Rohaimi told me, he’s seen his food referred to as “restaurant-level hawker food,” a categorisation he rejects, feeling it discounts what’s possible at a hawker centre. “If you eat hawker food, you know that it can often be much better than anything at a restaurant.”
He wants to open a restaurant eventually—or, leveraging his in-progress biomedical engineering degree, a food lab. But he sees the modern hawker centre not just as a steppingstone, but a place to experiment. “Because you only have to manage so many things, unlike at a restaurant, a hawker stall right now gives us a kind of limitlessness to try new things,” he said.
Using high-grade Australian beef and employing a whole staff, Rohaimi must charge more than typical hawker stalls, though his food, around $12 per 100 grams of steak, still costs far less than high-end restaurant fare. He’s found that people will pay for quality, he says, even if he first has to convince them to try the food.
At Yishun Park Hawker Centre (now temporarily closed for renovations), Nurl Asyraffie, 33, has encountered a similar dynamic since he started Kerabu by Arang , a stall specialising in “modern Malay food.” The day we came, he was selling ayam percik , a grilled chicken leg smothered in a bewitching turmeric-based marinade. As we ate, a hawker from another stall came over to inquire how much we’d paid. When we said around $10 a plate, she looked skeptical: “At least it’s a lot of food.”
Asyraffie, who opened the stall after a spell in private dining and at big-name restaurants in the region, says he’s used to dubious reactions. “I think the way you get people’s trust is you need to deliver,” he said. “Singapore is a melting pot; we’re used to trying new things, and we will pay for food we think is worth it.” He says a lot of the same older “uncles” who gawked at his prices, are now regulars. “New hawkers like me can fill a gap in the market, slightly higher than your chicken rice, but lower than a restaurant.”
But economics is only half the battle for a new generation of hawkers, says Seng Wun Song, a 64-year-old, semiretired economist who delves into the inner workings of Singapore’s food-and-beverage industry as a hobby. He thinks locals and tourists who come to hawker centers to look for “authentic” Singaporean food need to rethink what that amorphous catchall word really means. What people consider “heritage food,” he explains, is a mix of Malay, Chinese, Indian and European dishes that emerged from the country’s founding. “But Singapore is a trading hub where people come and go, and heritage moves and changes. Hawker food isn’t dying; it’s evolving so that it doesn’t die.”
