I want to take a moment to express my gratitude for all the private condolences I received for my beloved baby girl, Coco. It’s been a month now, and while the grief has eased somewhat, I’m still navigating this new “dog-free” life. The shift has been heavy, but I’m slowly adjusting. Here’s a glimpse into my thoughts as I reflect on this transition.
I find treasures everywhere: a treat in the pocket of my apron, a small stain on the bed quilt that I keep as a reminder of our last night together, and a can of Organic Pumpkin in the cupboard. Then there are the toys and balls—everywhere. Under sofas, in corners, hiding in the grass, in the car, and some even in the toy tote: tennis balls, squeaky ones, and the special ones we found like treasures on walks. Her leash hangs limply on the coat rack, and I still have her dog blanket in the back of the car. Poo bags? There are so many of those. The hall closet she loved—can I still call it a closet, or is it now a dog room? My tennis shoes, meant for trips to the dog park, still carry traces of dirt. There are knitted dog sweaters to keep her warm, and a pink towel with a bone imprint and oatmeal shampoo, memories of snuggling her dry after baths or rain or swims. I think back on the vitamin supplements and dog meds we tried to stimulate her appetite and support her liver, which only worked temporarily, but at least it temporarily eased my anxiety about her health. But there are so many things that feel different now.
I miss cuddling with my fur baby, showering her with kisses, and gazing into those big, beautiful eyes. I can’t say, “Good night baby, sleep with the Angels, because you are one. Mama loves you!” I no longer sing “Rise and Shine” to her each morning while she wagged her tail, ready for playtime. Or jump out of bed to find a toy so she could play fetch and I would run in my bare feet to the backyard. Now, I eat my meals alone, with nobody watching me. I’m accustomed to the door opening when I’m peeing. I miss my shower monitor patiently waiting for new smells. Singing in the car feels empty without her as my audience. Walking alone has become the loneliest activity, and writing without my dog by my side feels so wrong. I find myself missing those sweet tones I would impart in our conversations—who will listen to my ramblings now?
Meditation is different too; I’m alone on the floor without her circling me, wanting to join in. I used to kiss her heart after our sessions. Mornings now begin without a wagging tail to greet me, and my naps on the sofa are void of her little head on my feet, or the warm furry body nestled close.
Every time I leave the house, I feel someone is missing; coming home is the hardest part—this place doesn’t feel right without her. A house without a dog isn’t a home. Going out without worrying about getting back feels strange; even freedom seems over-rated now.
The silence in the house is just too loud. It’s a stark reminder that I live alone after over two decades of sharing my life. Above all, I miss the unconditional love that filled my days. Being cherished with all my flaws and quirks, without hesitation—pure trust, devotion, and love.
Did you ever lose a pet that was your child? How did you adjust? Please share.
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