The poem is older than the internet, and gentler than most things that survive that long.
It has different versions in different households. Sometimes there is a meadow. Sometimes there is sunlight. Sometimes there is a long bright stretch where the old dogs run again, no pain in the hips, no cloud over the eyes, and they wait at the end of a bridge for the person they belonged to. Rainbow bridge. People say the phrase in cards, on Instagram squares, in the message at the bottom of the photograph posted on the day a dog dies. Some people roll their eyes at it. The press does not.
The press has made books for many people who use that phrase. We do not mock it. We do not pretend the phrase isn't there. We hold it the way the household holds it — quietly, where the dog used to sleep — and we write the book around what the family actually remembers about the dog, not around the symbol on the cover.
This is a note about that.
What a rainbow bridge book actually is, in the studio.
It is a hardcover storybook about one named dog. Not a poem reprint. Not a card. Not a wall print. A real book, on a real shelf, with the dog's name on the spine and a story inside that is theirs.
A rainbow bridge book is a hardcover storybook about the life of one named dog, bound once. At sundayfawn it is a first edition of one and ships in a few weeks. After we ship the book the file is closed and the press is reset. The book is built around the small specific things you remember — the breed, the habits, the corner of the kitchen — not the symbol on the cover.
If you want a rainbow on the last page, the press will paint a rainbow. If you do not, the press will not. We have made memorial books for golden retrievers that end with the dog asleep in a chair. We have made memorial books for huskies that end with a long wide field of snow. The bridge is allowed to be in there. The bridge is allowed not to be in there. The book is the dog's book. You decide.
On the phrase itself.
The rainbow bridge phrase carries weight that other grief phrases do not, because it does a specific thing. It says they are still themselves, somewhere, intact, young again, waiting. That is not a small claim. It is the centre of why people repeat it. The dog is not gone. The dog is at the end of the bridge.
If you believe that, the press believes it with you while we are making your book. If you don't quite believe it, but find the phrase comforting anyway, the press holds that too. If you cannot bring yourself to say the words — if you keep typing crossed the rainbow and deleting it, or starting and stopping — we will not put the phrase in your book unless you ask for it. The book is built from your language, not ours.
What we will not do is sneer at the phrase. The press is not in the business of being cleverer than the people who use it. The reader of this book is someone whose dog died. They came to us, probably late at night, probably while looking at photos on a phone. The kind voice of the studio meets them where they are.
What the book actually contains, page by page.
The shape is gentle and consistent, though every book is its own. Most rainbow bridge books, in the studio's experience, run roughly like this:
- An opening page. The dog's name. The dates. A line you wrote, or a line the studio drafted from your notes.
- A spread about the arrival. The day they came home. The first chair. The first night. The first time they trusted you.
- A long middle. The years. The walks. The food they would not eat. The squeaky toy that survived eight winters. The chair they were not supposed to sit on and which became theirs anyway. The trips. The other people in the household. The other animals, if there were any. The way they got older.
- A page or two about the last season. The slow walks. The sun on the floor. The household around them. The vet, if you want the vet in the book. Many people do not. Many people do.
- A closing page. Sometimes the bridge. Sometimes the meadow. Sometimes a quiet rendering of the chair, empty now, with light on it. Sometimes a single line. And then he slept, and then he did not wake. Some books end with the rainbow. Some books end with the kitchen corner where the dog used to stand at five-thirty. Either is right.
The scenery is illustrated in a style that fits the dog. A retriever's book tends toward warm light and grass. A senior shepherd's book often holds more shadow and more stillness. The dog is illustrated with care but in a painterly register; the book is not a photograph.
You can read more about how a custom hardcover book is made, what the binding looks like, what arrives at the door. The shape is the same shape across every reader. The story is yours.
What people most often want included.
Across many books, certain things come up again and again. Households are different and dogs are different, but the universals are surprisingly stable:
- The way they ran when they were young. Specifically. The legs sideways, the ears flat, the corners they always cut.
- The thing they were unreasonably scared of. The vacuum. The hat in the hallway. The hot air balloon they once saw at a barbecue and never forgave.
- The thing they were unreasonably brave about. The other dog. The fox. The night the alarm went off and they stood at the door anyway.
- The food rules. The list of things they would and would not eat. The one human food they were technically not allowed and which they got every Sunday.
- The corner. The chair. The window. The rug. There is always a rug.
- The other person in the household whose dog they really were, even though they belonged to everyone. The husband who pretended to be unmoved. The teenager who was furious at the world but soft with the dog. The grandparent who used to slip them treats.
- The way the household called them. Not the formal name on the collar. The actual name. Mister. Bud. The dog. The pet name no one else uses.
If you give the press a list of these, in any order, in any state, the book will hold them. You do not need to write paragraphs. A list will do. A voice note will do. The studio will write the book.
What if it is too soon.
Sometimes it is too soon, and the person knows it.
People email the press in the first week and apologise for being incoherent. People order a book and then write the next day asking if we can pause for a month. People send three pages of memories and then go quiet. The press is patient. The book waits.
We do not rush memorial books. A few weeks is our normal turnaround once we have what we need, but the clock starts when you are ready, not when the order goes in. If the only thing you can write today is the dog's name and the dates, that is enough to start the file. The rest comes when it comes. We have, more than once, made a book that took six months from order to send because the household needed the year to write it. That is fine. That is how grief works. The press is not in a hurry.
A note on the symbol vs. the dog.
If you came looking for a rainbow bridge book and found this page, the press would gently say: the rainbow is allowed to be in the book, but it is not the book. The book is the dog. Your dog. The one with the specific ears, the specific habits, the specific way they stood at the door at five-thirty, the specific moment in your kitchen that nobody else would recognise as a moment. The book is built around them. The bridge — if you want it — sits at the end, and the dog walks out across it because that is the picture you carry. Or the bridge does not appear at all, and the dog is in their chair, in good light. Either book is true.
You can read more about how the press makes a book for the rainbow bridge on the pets page. Same press. Same hand. Same One edition. Then the file is closed.
And then.
When the book arrives, it is . The cover is matte-printed. The dog's name is on the spine. The book is read once, often, by everyone in the household, sometimes aloud, sometimes alone in the kitchen, sometimes at the chair, sometimes on the anniversary, sometimes never again. All of these are right.
The press has heard back from many people about what happens after. Most say the same thing in different words: the book is on the shelf, and the dog is in it.
That is the whole point.
Common questions.
Is a rainbow bridge book just the poem in a book?* No. A rainbow bridge book at sundayfawn is a hardcover storybook about one named dog, illustrated for one reader. The poem is not reprinted. The bridge may appear on the closing page if you want it. The book is built around your dog's specifics — the breed, the habits, the household.
Do you put the rainbow bridge phrase in the book?* Only if you do. The press works from your language. If you use the phrase, we hold it carefully. If you don't, we don't. The book is built around your dog, not around the symbol.
How much does a rainbow bridge memorial book cost?* Hardcover. One edition. Same price whether the reader has two legs or four.
How long does a rainbow bridge book take?* A few weeks from order to ship, once we have what we need. The clock starts when you are ready. We do not rush memorial books.
Can it end with the bridge, or with something else?* Either. We have made books that end with the bridge, with a meadow, with the chair the dog used to sit in, with the kitchen corner at five-thirty. The closing page is yours to choose.
— A storybook no one else has ever read.