There are so many things that people don’t talk about following the loss of a pet.

My soul dog crossed the rainbow bridge on the evening of September 15, 2023. It happened quickly. He suffered heart failure, and there was little we could do. We made the excruciating decision to end his pain, with full understanding that ours was just beginning. When his heart broke, so did mine.

This is a sadness that I always knew would come eventually but was so unbelievably unprepared for. Grief is made up of all the bad things…anguish, guilt, sorrow, regret… all working together to create a pain so deep you can actually feel it in your chest and an exhaustion so great that you’d do anything to sleep, but can’t. The only thing I can think to do in this moment is write about him. About us. Words have always afforded me a way to cope. I feel a strong need to memorialize Bear’s life in some way that extends past our home, paying tribute to who he was and what he brought to my life. To create something lasting that will honor the impact he had while he was here. To make sure with total certainty that he will be remembered beyond just the memories of those who knew him. This seems like an okay way to do that. At least, it’s a start. And although this likely won’t help in the coming days as I face my heartbreak, I’m hoping I can come back to it someday in the future to revisit the overwhelming love I had, and still have, for my boy.

Bear was my first dog, the first love of my life. I rescued him when I was 22 and he was six weeks old. In many ways we grew up together. For over 11 years he was the one and only constant in my life, day in and day out. He was quirky, with some habits I loved and others not so much. But he was certainly unique, and that was his charm. I used to say that he was more human than animal, with actual facial expressions and more opinions than most people I know. And I loved him more than I love most people, too. As I moved my way through the world, facing heartache and moving to new apartments and homes and changing jobs and having an engagement and a wedding and a baby, he was there. He was my witness. He saw it all. My little buddy, consistent when I felt like I was living in chaos. There is a certain comfort that comes along with such predictability. I could rely on his love no matter the circumstances. It was powerful, unwavering, and pure.

Not many people got to know and understand Bear the way I wish they did. He was amazing. Smart, loyal, playful, and protective. I could write about him for hours, but I won’t because I know that no number of paragraphs or pages could do him justice. The love we have for a loyal pet is a unique one, and love shared with a soul dog is even more remarkable. It can only be felt, never expressed through something as dull as words. When they leave, it takes a piece of us. Who we are fundamentally changes into who we were, and we’re suddenly forced to learn how to exist in the world without that piece. Pets are chosen family members who become ingrained in our daily routine, and our identity.

Bear and I always came as a package deal, as much a part of me as my hands typing these words. To put it simply, he changed my life. He gave me purpose when I was still so young, offering a color to my days that I wouldn’t have had otherwise. I could never thank him enough, though I tried to as I laid with him on the floor of the private room at the emergency vet. He was laying on a colorful blanket on his right side, looking the same as he always had with the exception of his labored breathing. Knowing I didn’t have much more time with him, I took in every moment I could and tried to memorize the deep brown color of his eyes, the feeling of his soft ears, and the scent of his fur. Not long after, a very large piece of me left when he did.

So, I say again. There are so many things that people don’t talk about following the loss of a pet.

There are the big things, like coming home for the first time without him there to greet me. Or waking up without him there to say “good morning” to. Coming downstairs to find an empty space where his doggy bowls had been. Seeing his basket full of toys and knowing he’ll never play with them again. Being unable to sleep because my mind and body subconsciously became dependent on his snoring like white noise every night, and the silence when he was gone was deafening.

But then there are the smaller things, the unexpected things. The things that plunge new daggers into my heart every time because they blindside me. Opening the Amazon app and seeing items in my “saved for later” list that I’d planned to buy him. Having to delete those items and feeling like I’m simultaneously deleting bits of him from my life. Throwing out the full pill organizer that I had set up for his morning meds the day before. Hearing a car door slam outside or a knock on the door and fully bracing myself to hear his bark reverberate through the house, only to be met with total silence. The quiet of the house without the click of his nails on the floor. After wishing so many times in my life for some peace and quiet, the only thing I want in the entire world now is his noise. I’d give anything to have his fur all over the house. To have to clean up one more “accident” off the floor. To pick up another toy or bone or whatever mess he had next for me. I’d give anything.

Opening my wallet and finding his microchip card. Scraping mealtime leftovers into the garbage instead of his doggy bowl. Putting my daughter down for a nap or bedtime and not having to step over him laying by her door. Erasing the little paw print from the calendars on the fridge that would remind me when to give him his monthly meds. Making breakfast and cooking one less scrambled egg because he isn’t there to eat with us. Opening the closet to find his bandanas and puppy jacket. Taking his blankets out of the back of the car. All the small changes to the daily routine we curated over time to care for and love him are truly the biggest because they persist. When the initial shock of Bear’s absence is gone, I will be left with hundreds of tiny reminders that he was once here and now he isn’t, and that there’s nothing fair about it.

Formerly innocuous things have turned into hard, painful tasks. Vacuuming up the house becomes a betrayal…because of the fur that still lingers. Doing laundry becomes a betrayal…because items that belonged to him will be cleaned, but never worn again. Going outside becomes a betrayal…because boy he loved it out there. A beautiful snowy winter day becomes a betrayal…because he isn’t here to run in it. He loved the snow. All things that any person on the outside would see as mundane or normal are torturous to someone who is grieving the loss of a pet. It is irrational and illogical, but it is real.

 

You will feel alone, even if you’re not

He was my shadow, always by my side. Now it’s just me. And I’m not sure I like me all that much

He understood me. We had a heart language

You will feel guilt

I should have taken him on more walks. Maybe he would have been healthier if I had

I should have set up that bird feeder in the backyard so he could watch the birds. He loved birds

On the ride to the emergency vet when I thought he just had a stomach issue I told him that the vet would fix him up, and we’d go home. Why did I tell him that

 

You will feel regret

I should have let him have that extra cookie

I should have gotten off my damn phone and snuggled him

I should never have waited so long to take him to the emergency vet

 

There are no periods at the end of those sentences. Why? Because there may never be an end to the thoughts and emotions that feel so all-consuming in this moment. And you will absorb it all. Every agonizing second of it. It might come in waves, with periods of time during the day that you feel ok. And then it hits you again. It could be triggered by a big thing, a small thing, or nothing at all. And you will question when you’ll ever feel normal again. IF you’ll ever feel normal again.

So how do you move forward? The short answer – I have no idea. But I can tell you where I am at this point, mere days after losing my boy.

I wake up, stand up, and make the bed. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

I might do my morning skincare routine and take my vitamins. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

I might have a coffee in the kitchen before anyone wakes up. My favorite flavor, in my favorite mug, during my favorite time of the day. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

I might log into work for the day, putting on my best “customer service” voice to hide the depression. I might only draft a few emails, or complete one report. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

I might get 10,000 steps, or I might get 10. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

I might eat a meal. Just one is all I strive for right now. It might be healthy, or maybe not. And if that’s all I get done, that’s enough.

Whatever I do, I do it sad. I do it angry. I do it numb. But I do it. And it’s enough. There will hopefully come a day that I no longer want to die with him, and instead want to live for him. Dramatic? Maybe. But real pet owners will understand. Someday the persistent heavy pain in my chest will ease into a dull ache. The constant feeling that I’ve been robbed of my first baby will fade and be replaced by gratitude that I had 11 ½ years with him in the first place. And when my mind wanders to memories of Bear I will smile, not cry.

In the moments that I feel some clarity, or experience some perspective, I do what I can to focus on the present moment. With my particular flavor of grief, I tend to look backwards in time. I remember the things I should have done or could have done. Or I remember that horrible day when I held my boy’s face in my hands, thanked him for everything, and kissed his nose as he left this world. A day that I now categorize as the worst day of my entire life. But when those intrusive, involuntary thoughts fade for a moment and I am able to, I imagine him running outside on a beautiful day. He is pain-free, feeling the warmth of the sun on his fur and breathing in the fresh air, and he is happy. These thoughts are welcomed and bring a quiet peace over me. They are short-lived as I quickly remember how angry I am that my baby couldn’t live as long as me, how heavy my body feels knowing I’ll never walk or hug or talk to him again, how sick I am at the thought of waking up without him another day. But they’re there, and they will grow bigger and stay longer with time.

But today I grieve, and in the same way I’ll always love him, a part of me will continue to grieve for the rest of my life.

Goodbye, my good boy.

Love,

Mama