In the first hour, you might find yourself checking for them in their usual spots. You’ll look at the corner of the couch where they shed like a miracle, or listen for the click-clack of claws on the kitchen floor. I once walked into the backyard to call my dog for dinner, only to realize—with a gut punch—that she wasn’t coming. That’s the weirdest part: your brain still expects them, like expecting a microwave ding that never comes.
You might also start texting people. But what do you say? “Hey, my dog died, and I’m crying into a bag of chips”? Send that. Send it. Because your friends who get it will reply with heart emojis and stories of their own. The ones who don’t? They’ll send a “Sorry for your loss” that feels like a polite cardboard sign—but hey, they tried.
The Denial Phase (Also Known as the “Maybe They’re Just Hiding” Phase)
Denial hits hard. I spent a solid ten minutes convinced my dog had just gotten really good at hiding, like a canine ninja who’d mastered the art of invisibility. I checked under the bed, behind the curtains, even in the laundry basket. Spoiler: they’re not hiding. But it’s okay to pretend for a bit—just don’t start rearranging furniture to find them, because that’s a whole new level of sad.
This is also when you might talk to them. Out loud. In public. You’ll say, “Oh, Buddy, you wouldn’t believe what the mailman did today,” and then realize you’re an actor in a one-person show about a dog. It’s awkward and beautiful, and everyone does it. Don’t fight it; it’s like comfort food for the soul.
