I miss my dog. My best buddy of eleven years passed away three and a half months ago. I’m sending my feelings out into the world for others to use while processing their own grief. For me, reading others’ stories helps me ground and validate my feelings. I hope I can offer the same to you.
If you’re reading this post because you’ve recently lost your best friend, please accept my sincerest condolences. I’m so deeply sorry for your loss.
When choosing to get your first dog, there’s an important piece of the equation that everyone seems to leave out. Parents may remind you that you’ll have to “clean up after him” or friends may warn you about the struggles of teething and potty training. Yes, there will be new expenses, endless hairballs that need vacuuming and extra planning for weekends away.
No one mentions that if your dog is lucky enough to share his entire life with you, it will end with you losing a piece of yourself that you didn’t even know you had to lose.
Maybe no one bothers adding the reality of their too-short lives into the equation because it doesn’t really matter. Despite the explosion of pain losing them brings, I wouldn’t hesitate even a second in doing it all over.
I was 18, just graduated high school and had a solid stash of graduation money in the bank. It had hardly been a week after my graduation party when I started looking up puppies on eBay Classifieds (which no longer exists, I recently learned). I really wanted a dog.
I lived with my mom at the time. We’d always had dogs in the house as long as I could remember. I made the decision not to mention my puppy searching to her though. My childhood dog had recently passed away so the feelings were still tender at home.
My mom mentioned in the past her fondness for Australian Shepherds. I figured if I was going to piss her off by bringing home a dog without her consent, the least I could do was consider her breed preferences.
After days of browsing, I found him. A leggy, Bambi-looking, four-month-old black-tri Australian Shepherd sprawled out on someone’s kitchen floor.
His family had just moved. They couldn’t bring the dog inside their new place, so he’d been tied up in the backyard until they could find him a new home.
Teenage me texted the number in the listing without hesitation. The man on the other end and I agreed to meet at a gas station downstate that Saturday morning.
I was SO. EXCITED.
My boyfriend at the time drove me down to Monroe, MI. There was no way he was letting me meet a strange man claiming to have a puppy at a gas station by myself.
Only minutes after meeting and petting the excited little pup in a Shell gas station parking lot, I handed over my wad of $250 in exchange for, who would soon become, my best friend. The three of us loaded back into the car and began the trek home. It was then that I began strategizing how I’d inform my mother of my recent decision.
During the drive home, I named my puppy Kobe.
Kobe stayed at my boyfriend’s house for a couple of days before I broke the news to my mom. I was so nervous about how she’d react, but the first thing she asked was “where is he?”, then “when can I meet him?”.
Over time, Kobe and I grew a bond deeper than I knew was even possible. My dog knew how I was feeling before I knew myself. I could understand him so easily, while everyone else often misunderstood him. I knew what each type of bark, growl and look meant so naturally (and there were lots of growls and barks!).
Despite him being raised in a house with two other people and another dog, I undeniably became his person. He followed me everywhere, listened to every command, and cuddled at every opportunity. We traveled and explored together. He slept at the foot of each of my beds through those transitional years of my life.
Through heartaches, celebrations and the mundane everything in between, Kobe was by my side for 11 years. The unconditional love that developed in that time was incredible.
In January of 2021, I moved for the third time since graduation into the first house I’d ever lived in alone. Between us having a place to ourselves and the state of the world during the pandemic, Kobe and I did nearly everything together. Unlike in earlier years, I didn’t even have to leave for work anymore. We hung out together at home every single day.
In the spring of 2022, we took a 6 week-long road trip from our home in Michigan to southwestern Utah. Just me, my dog and the open road. It was one of the best experiences of my life.
We hiked nearly every day. My dog saw more sites around the country than some people will ever see. I’ll be forever grateful for the experiences we shared.
Around the time of our trip, Kobe started losing weight. He’d been a few pounds overweight earlier in the year, so I chalked up the weight loss to his new food and daily hikes.
Over the span of about 6 months, he’d had a couple of weird dizzy spells, so I took him to the vet. They referred him to a neurologist, where we received the all-clear. There was no evidence of any neurological problems. Nothing unusual in his bloodwork.
Like many Aussies, he’d often nap in the craziest positions. During the last few months, after lying on his back a while, he’d be woken with a cough. As long as he didn’t lay on his back, the cough stayed hidden. Regrettably, I didn’t think too much of it.
In his last couple of weeks, he became clingier than usual (although he was always very clingy – a stereotypical velcro dog). In hindsight, warning signs were there, even if very subtle.
On a seemingly very average Thursday, I looked out the window from my home office into my backyard. Kobe was peacefully lounging in a patch of clover, looking out at the yard. He looked so relaxed and content. Instead of turning around and getting back to work like I normally would, I went outside and joined him. We relaxed on the cool ground together.
During my lunch break that day, Kobe and I played with his toys in the living room. He played fetch with his favorites: ducky and “cactus baby”, a plush squeaky cactus toy I bought him in Utah.
After work, we took a long walk around the neighborhood. He wasn’t always well-behaved on walks, but that one was one of the better ones.
Like any other night, we went through the steps of our bedtime routine. He sprawled out next to me on the floor, which wasn’t unusual during warm nights since the floor was cooler than the bed.
On Friday, June 24, 2022 at 7:00 am, my alarm went off for work. I snoozed it, like usual. Kobe jumped up onto the bed next to me so our backs were against each other. I fell back asleep.
At about 7:30 am, he let out a cry. I flew out of bed like lightning. The sound was nothing I’d ever heard from him before and I knew immediately something was very wrong.
He was laying on the edge of the bed with his front legs and neck tight and flexed, while his back legs went completely limp. He started slipping off the bed, so I picked him up and pushed him further up again.
I caressed his beautiful black fur. In my calmest voice, I told him he was okay and that I loved him so much. A part of me desperately hoped this was another weird spell that he’d bounce back from within seconds again.
The rest of me knew this was different. I was losing him. I was laser-focused on the rise and fall of his chest, watching him take in deep breaths, helplessly waiting to see another and another. Within a minute, they stopped.
It’s so hard to describe the feeling I had at that moment. It was like my brain was so completely overloaded that it stalled. I didn’t cry, didn’t move. I don’t even know how I kept breathing. Just a moment ago, I was cuddling next to my best friend of 11 years. Seconds later, he was gone forever.
Grief began passing over me like a slow-motion tidal wave.
My mom and her boyfriend came over to help me get in touch with the vet so they could pick up my boy. I didn’t know what to do with myself, pacing from my bedside to my sofa to the kitchen. My thoughts were flopping around in a confused panic, jumping from “what just happened?” to “no way” to the haunting sound of his last yelp.
He was lying on my bed, looking as beautiful as ever. His fuzzy paws and crimpy ears were so perfectly still. The glass crystals hanging in my bedroom window adorned his fur in tiny rainbows. I realized this would be the last time I’d ever see my dog.
The cremation service came to take him away. I took off his collar and signed the paperwork.
I couldn’t even watch as they loaded him up into the back of the van. It was the moment he was no longer in the house that the pain became almost too much to bear.
My wave of grief continued to roll in, tearing down every bit of feeling “normal” along the way, like buildings washing away in a tsunami. It finally brought in sobs that shook me to my core. I cried so hard my head ached and my eyes actually hurt.
Just like that, he was gone. The puppy I’d picked up in the gas station parking lot grew old and died. The pain was the worst I’ve ever felt.
As I’m writing this, it’s been 3 and a half months since I lost Kobe. I think about him every single day. The wave of grief still rolls in daily, but it rolls in and out more like a tide now. There are more good days than bad.
The memories of his silly antics and overwhelming enthusiasm for walks are still as bitter as they are sweet. I smile as I remember, but never without shedding some tears too.
If you’ve recently lost a beloved dog, please know that you’ll be okay too. The pain is immeasurable, I know. We don’t have much choice other than to let it wash over us. You, too, will eventually begin to heal.
Process your grief however feels right for as long as you have to. If you’re feeling up for it, talk through your feelings with a trusted family member or friend. Journal everything you can about them so you won’t forget a single detail. Memorialize your dog so their memory can live on.
You may or may not choose to open your heart to another dog again. For me, living in a dogless house quickly became unbearable. The quiet was deafening. The hairballs didn’t replenish after I vacuumed. My bedroom was so still I couldn’t sleep for days. The entire structure of my typical day was destroyed.
My heart still aches every day, but I’ve begun healing. I’ve received a little help from a pup named Zion. He keeps me busy, fulfills my need to be a dog mom and, in a way, allows my love for Kobe to go on through the unconditional love of another dog.
It’s crazy how quickly I’ve fallen in love all over again. I made the decision to get another dog knowing I’d need to clean up after him. That we’d have to go through potty training and teething. There would be new expenses, endless hairballs that need vacuuming and extra planning for weekends away.
I also know that one day, if I’m lucky enough to be given the honor of sharing Zion’s entire life with him, I’ll be struck with the crippling agony of loss once more. But it doesn’t really matter does it? All the time I get before then will be worth it.
Sincerely,
Written in loving memory of Kobe (Joben, Chumpkin)
February 28, 2011 – June 24, 2022
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