AZLE, Texas — When Rayfield Wright decided to have his pet cat mercifully put to sleep, he did what he would do for any other beloved family member.

He purchased a casket, burial plot and headstone.

One recent spring day, the former Dallas Cowboys offensive lineman drove from his Parker County, Texas, home to the Smoke Rise Farm Pet Cemetery in Azle, Texas. This large man nicknamed "Big Cat" for his quickness and prowess, this perennial All-Pro who played in five Super Bowls, knelt at an open grave to say goodbye to a small gray-striped feline.

Wright found the animal on a rooftop 17 years ago.

He took the stray into his home and gave him a name — Joey.

His family, especially the children, grew to love the playful companion; and Wright, 60, cared for him to the end, until the animal became so sick and frail he no longer had the strength to walk.

Wright buried the cat in the 5-acre cemetery, on land that was originally a horse farm. Among the other animals at Smoke Rise Farm is a former local television celebrity, a Great Dane that appeared in commercials for an area auto dealership. Wide Track barked on cue.

Wright grew up around animals in his hometown, Griffin, Ga. He related a dramatic incident as a toddler when he tired and sat down while trailing his mother as she crossed a road to visit a neighbor. Suddenly, a large truck appeared. The driver leaned on his horn and frantically hit the brakes. In a heroic scene reminiscent of an episode of "Lassie," the family dog, a German shepherd mix named Gal, dragged the child out of harm's way.

At the Azle graveyard, Wright said a brief prayer for his departed cat.

The cat's granite marker reads:

"Joey Wright

Every Good and Perfect Gift Comes From Above"

The man who will be enshrined this summer in the Pro Football Hall of Fame is unconcerned if others think the gesture was overly sentimental, or regard his spending several hundred dollars to bury a cat as a frivolous or bizarre extravagance.

"He deserved a resting place," Wright said. "I loved Joey. I miss him. We all do."

We are socialized to regard animal life as less important than our own. Yet, many who form a deep connection with their pets experience profound sadness and loneliness when the animals die.

Hurricane Katrina underscored the emotional human attachment to four-legged companions. The May issue of the AARP Bulletin describes how a 69-year-old New Orleans retiree and his dachshund survived the disaster together, as the waters rose, living for five days in an attic on cans of vienna sausage and cheese snacks.

On the second day of flooding, rescuers refused to take Thomas Reed's 7-year-old dog, Weezie, and the man wouldn't leave without her. "This little dog is my family," Reed said. "No way I was going to leave her behind."

Some evacuees were forcibly separated from their pets. One distraught woman offered her wedding ring to a shelter aide if he would find out what happened to her dog, which was not allowed inside.

These stories and others don't surprise those employed in the multifaceted pet loss industry.

There are pet cemeteries, pet crematories, pet grief counselors, pet loss hot lines, pet loss books and tapes and online chat rooms. The Association for Pet Loss and Bereavement is a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping people who "are in this fragile lifeboat together" cope with their sorrow.

The Humane Society of the U.S. sponsors a program on its Web site that accepts donations to honor the memory of one's pet. PetLossCare.com even provides a package ($29.95) designed to help lead pet lovers "down the path of healing." Contents include a celebratory love booklet, a remembrance journal and a guide for a farewell memorial service and candlelight vigil.

Perpetual Pet and other companies specialize in freeze-drying animals, an alternative to conventional taxidermy. The eight-week process preserves a pet's body in a pose of the customer's choosing. "Even from a distance of a couple of feet or so," says the Perpetual Pet Web site, "it will be difficult to tell any difference at all, save the lack of movement."

Cost is based upon weight — $595 up to 20 pounds, plus $50 for each additional pound.

Perpetual Pet freeze-dries up to 100 animals per year.

In Fort Worth, Texas, a city ordinance prohibits burying pets in private yards or on public property. Pet cemeteries provide a sense of dignity and permanence and an alternative to those who wouldn't consider placing Fido's body in a bag and leaving it on the curb, like the weekly trash, to be disposed of by the city's Animal Care and Control.

Like Smoke Rise Farm, Faithful Friends Pet Cemetery and Crematory in Everman is a "full service perpetual care" cemetery.

Think of it as a Forest Lawn or Laurel Land for dogs, cats, birds and other small animals.

Owned by a licensed funeral director, the establishment provides burial or cremation (a more popular and economical choice) and offers a complete line of urns and caskets, vaults, memorials, a mausoleum entombment, a prepayment plan and even a carpeted, handsomely furnished "stateroom" for viewing.

Price for a small plot and minimum-cost casket burial is $250.

"I worked at a funeral home when I was in college. I've seen people get more upset over their animals than they do a family member," said Heather Garrison, general manager of Faithful Friends. "Often it's the men who break down and cry. ... Your animal is always there for you. Pets give you that unconditional love."

Soon after the cemetery opened, one family for whom ceremony was essential requested a graveside tent and chairs and arranged for a minister to preside over a brief service. The pet received quite a send-off.

More than 500 pets are interred on the 6 tree-shaded acres, which features a gazebo and pond. On weekends, and holidays, visitors place flowers or other items of remembrance alongside markers.

Daisy. Sonny. Taffy. Lady. Sam. Zeke. Snowball.

Headstones read, "You saved our lives." "Thank you for making our lives better." "To our best friend, our protector, hunting fishing and everyday loyal partner." "Playing ball with angels."

The cemetery mails each client a death certificate, letter of condolence and a brochure titled Coping with Pet Loss.

"Remember," the pamphlet says, "your grief is genuine and deserving of support."

Closing the conference room door behind her, she took a seat at the table and smiled into the faces of those seated around her.

Jeannie Nadel spoke in a level voice, her tone empathetic and understanding.

"It's all right to cry, or not to cry," she began. "We want to get better."

Nadel is a facilitator of a pet loss support group that meets one Saturday monthly at the Dealey Animal Care Center in Dallas. The free counseling program offered by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals of Texas was designed by Diane Pomerance, a certified grief recovery specialist, author and SPCA volunteer.

Heavenly Creatures Pet Loss Support Group meets twice monthly in Fort Worth.

Books about pet loss are as numerous as canine breeds. Among the titles: "Dog Gone"; "Goodbye, Friend"; "Cold Noses at the Pearly Gates: A Book of Hope"; "The Final Farewell."

Therapists agree that animals play a role in the emotional well-being of their owners. One by one, those attending the Dallas session spoke about his or her pet, sharing memories and the range of feelings each experienced.

Some believe, and find comfort, in the supposition that separation isn't forever, that humans and their pets will eventually be reunited. An SPCA brochure promotes this notion, describing an idyllic, ethereal place "just this side of heaven" called Rainbow Bridge, where animal companions who had been ill and old are restored to heath and vigor. There they await a joyous reunion.

An ABCNEWS/Beliefnet poll posed a theological question. "Do pets go to heaven?"

Among pet owners, 47 percent answered yes. Thirty-five percent said only people have a place in a hereafter.

When her time came to speak, Kathy Langhorst-Tienter produced an album filled with photographs of her dog. Accompanied by her husband, she drew a deep breath, as if to steel herself, and reached into a travel bag for a stack of tissues.

For 15 minutes, the woman spoke lovingly, longingly, happily, proudly about Jacob.

"Our child," she called him. "Our son."

A neighbor found the puppy, a German shepherd-border collie mix, when he was 6 weeks old, abandoned in a rain and sleet storm. The animal became a service dog and a reliable companion for Kathy, who has multiple sclerosis. The animal lived with the Tienters for 10 years and traveled with them everywhere. Jacob had his own room and TV. He loved vanilla ice cream.

"People say, 'Oh, he was just a dog,"' Langhorst-Tienter said later. "No. He was a person who loved me."

On March 10, the Carrollton couple met with a veterinarian and sat together on a blanket in a peaceful grassy area in north Dallas. Jacob was dying of cancer. In the gathering twilight, a moment before the animal was euthanized, the vet turned to Kathy. As their eyes met she asked, "Are you ready?"

Through her tears, the woman stroked the coat of her devoted friend, resting in her lap.

"I'm never going to be ready," she said.