When my cat Atticus died, I was a wreck. We got a call from a neighbor who found his little tabby body in the street. He'd been hit by a car. My husband (at the time) scooped him up and brought him home to the garage and left the cat there, as he had to fly off on a business trip.
Long story short: A day later, I had an Episcopal priest in my backyard, giving my cat a send-off as we buried him (probably illegally). It made me feel a little better, standing with my friends, giving Atticus, a great feline, his due. At some point, I stopped continuously crying and shaking.