In 1896, Hartsdale Pet Cemetery opened its gates in New York, USA.
Today, it is the final resting place of nearly 100,000 deeply loved and dearly missed animal companions, and the world’s oldest pet cemetery still in operation.
In this post, you’ll read how a single act of kindness grew into a peaceful animal kingdom.
Images: Courtesy by Hartsdale Pet Cemetery
The history of Hartsdale
Emily Berthet, a successful equestrian and one of the so-called “New Women”1,had a deep love for animals and their welfare.
Through the organization ASPCA2 (the American Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals), she met veterinarian Dr. Samuel Johnson.
Dr. Johnson was a prominent veterinarian and surgeon, and the owner of New York’s first state-of-the-art animal hospital in Manhattan.
Together, they noticed a growing need among New Yorkers: a place where beloved animals could be laid to rest. A true cemetery, as dignified and peaceful as those reserved for humans.
Emily Berthet had the perfect location — her summer home, set on a five-acre (approx. two hectares) plot of land in the village of Hartsdale, about 20 miles north of New York City.
Dr. Samuel Johnson, in turn, had a large clientele of pet owners who would one day have to say goodbye to their beloved companions — a grief he knew was as inevitable as the need for a dignified farewell.
Together, they founded the first pet cemetery in the United States: Hartsdale Pet Cemetery.
1 The term “New Women” refers to women of the modern era who, unlike the Victorian ideal that confined women to the roles of wife and mother, pursued education, professional careers, and economic independence.
2 The Swedish equivalent is Djurskyddet Sverige. Both organizations work to improve animal welfare and strengthen animal protection laws.
“The Peaceable Kingdom” – where all are equals
Today, around 100,000 animals rest side by side at Hartsdale Pet Cemetery. Dogs, cats, birds, horses, rabbits, reptiles, and rodents. There are also a few more unexpected residents — including a monkey, a tiger, and a lion cub — who have found their final home here.
Somewhere between 800 and 1,000 humans are also buried within the cemetery grounds.
Animals may be given a traditional burial in a coffin, while humans must be cremated in order to be interred at Hartsdale Pet Cemetery.
Along the winding pathways, you’ll encounter a unique blend of gravestones and memorials: large and small, simple and ornate, imaginative and traditional, famous and unknown. Different languages, religions, species, and stories exist side by side.
At Hartsdale, there is no food chain and no hierarchy.
All are equally loved. All are equally missed.
Read more about this unique resting place for beloved animals.
🐾 Hartsdale Pet Cemetery – https://petcem.com/ 🐾
If you, like me, live on another continent and can’t simply stop by Hartsdale, I highly recommend looking up photos or videos, for example on YouTube. The place is incredibly beautiful, and even through a screen, you can almost feel its unique sense of peace.
Have you visited Hartsdale Pet Cemetery or any other pet cemetery?
A short story with Quinley & Herrow
Who are Quinley and Herrow?
In Coffinfolk Café’s stand alone short stories, you’ll meet two most unlikely friends:
Quinley – Coffinfolk’s café host. A young woman who loves life just as much as she loves exploring the cultural heritage of death and sharing advice, information, and insights that can help people – whether they are facing their own encounter with Death or living with grief.
Herrow – Death himself. He may look frightening in his black cloak, but beneath the bones is a kind soul who enjoys a cup of coffee and sharing experiences gathered from every corner of time.
You can find a longer introduction + a short story about their first meeting HERE
“Plutos Present”
Narrated by Quinley
There it was again. The rubber duck.
The yellow, worn little toy lay, as always, on the table beside the woman’s coffee cup.
My curiosity was slowly driving me mad, but at the same time I sensed that the story of the child who once splashed and played with it in the bathtub would not have a happy ending.
When I walked over to her table to ask if she’d like a refill, she must have noticed my gaze drifting toward the duck. She placed a protective hand over it.
“It was Pluto’s,” she explained as I topped up her cup.
After some time working at the café, you develop a good instinct for when people have more to tell — and here, there was clearly a story waiting.
“He loved his rubber ducks. Don’t ask me why,” she continued with a small laugh as I pulled out a chair and sat down beside her.
“Would you like to tell me more about Pluto?”
“He was my best friend. My rock. When I moved from Boston to New York City, it was just the two of us in the beginning.” Ah. That explained her American accent. She took a sip of coffee and went on, telling me about her and Pluto’s adventures together in the city that never sleeps.
She scrolled through photos and held up her phone. On the screen, a black Australian Kelpie looked back at me with squinting dark eyes — a familiar yellow rubber duck clenched proudly in his mouth.
Even as an old gentleman, Pluto had loved life, and his now quite impressive collection of rubber ducks.
When the time came, he was laid to rest among all the other animals at Hartsdale Pet Cemetery.
The last photo she showed me was of his gravestone.
“When I die, I’ll be buried next to him. He never left my side in life, and I will never leave his in death.” She sighed and put her phone down. “Oh, I was supposed to travel home to New York now, but work got in the way,” she sighed. “It’s his birthday today. I wanted so badly to give him this.” She held up the duck and ran her thumb over a couple of bite marks in the yellow plastic.
“I can’t promise anything,” I said softly, “but I might be able to make sure Pluto still gets his gift.” I glanced toward Herrow, who sat in his usual spot on the sofa. The Grim Reaper looked back at me and gave a small nod.
The woman closed her hand around the duck.
“Oh… thank you. That would be… wow. Thank you.” She handed it to me.
We chatted a little longer before duty called her back to work.
When Harley finally arrived to start his shift, I explained my plan for Pluto’s present.
Had a group of caffeine-craving ladies not walked in just then, Harley would probably have closed the café on the spot to come with me and Herrow instead. Harley loves animals — but he’ll have to make do with our little mascot, the church grim Grimmy.
“Don’t look at me like that!” I swatted my scarf at Harley as I buttoned up my coat.
My boss sat behind the register, giving me the most pleading puppy eyes.
“You’ll get to go another time. This is a mission for Quinley and Death, isn’t it, Herrow?”
Harley muttered something inaudible and took a bite of his cinnamon bun while Herrow just laughed.
We slipped into Harley’s office so as not to frighten the customers when we vanished into thin air. Meeting the Grim Reaper can be quite enough to process for a newcomer.
“Ready?” Herrow held out his hand.
I grabbed it with both of mine and held on for dear life. Herrow’s “shortcuts” are amazing and magical, but I have no desire to get lost along the way.
The familiar rush of wind hit my face and I squeezed my eyes shut.
“We’re here.” Herrow gently pried my fingers loose.
“Wow.” I looked around the snow-covered pet cemetery. The photos hadn’t done it justice — if anything, it was even more beautiful in person.
“So, shall we start searching from opposite ends, or what’s the plan?” Herrow took a few steps among the rows of gravestones and memorials.
“In the photo, you could see that large monument for dogs who served in World War I — so that’s our landmark.” I followed the Reaper along one of the winding paths.
It was hard not to stop and read every stone. Each one was so unique, so beautiful in its own way.
I wondered if people dared to be more personal when memorializing their pets, unbound by the unspoken rules that seem to govern human graves. Yet another thing we have to learn from animals.
The large monument stood like a guiding star as we trudged through the snow. I couldn’t help brushing my mitten along the statue of the German Shepherd wearing a Red Cross blanket.
“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us two-legged ones. We’re here to leave a gift for one of your cousins.”
Herrow stood beside a small, simple gravestone nearby. He bent down and carefully brushed the snow away with the sleeve of his cloak. I took the rubber duck from my pocket and joined him.
“Can I leave it here? Does it work even when I’m just visiting like this?” I gestured vaguely at my body.
A couple of visitors passed by at a distance. They couldn’t hear us. They couldn’t see us. Traveling with Herrow was like being a ghost.
“It’s the thought that counts, after all,” Herrow replied, crouching beside me.
“True…” I placed the rubber duck on top of the gravestone. It looked like a tiny sun against the winter landscape. I closed my eyes and thought of all the animals resting around me. All the paws that had gone quiet, feathers stilled, scales that had lost their shine. But what felt most tangible of all was the love in the air.
When I opened my eyes again, the duck was gone. I looked at Herrow, but his expression was as unreadable as ever.
We walked along another path, and I asked him again if he had hidden the duck. He continued to deny it.
When I heard him laugh, I thought a confession was finally coming — but instead, he pointed between the gravestones, where I could have sworn I saw the shape of a black dog trotting along, tail wagging and something yellow clutched in its mouth.
Maybe Pluto got his gift after all. Rest in peace, goodest birthday boy.