Pet Grief Is Real.

I lost three pets in three years and no --it hasn't gotten easier.

Under fluorescent light, on a Monday afternoon, my family and I huddled around a table and bid farewell to our beloved dog, Oliver.

Oliver was 15-years-old and in some ways, this loss was anticipated. We’ve had discussions about his declining health, his naps which grew longer and longer, but most importantly – how special he was.

On September 4th, 2016 (Beyonce’s birthday), I received a Facetime call from my cousin, Jonathan. Driving through Highland Park, he spotted a scraggly dog on a street corner. With equal excitement and worry he said, “There’s a dog on the road and he’s really cute. I’m afraid he’s going to get hit by a car!” Without hesitation, I said “Bring him home! My mom will be fine with it.”

Over the years, our family home became an oasis for stray animals. Oliver was not the first dog we rescued from the street. He was the third dog we picked up. Jonathan and my mom bathed him multiple times. Each time, struggling with his matted and dirty hair. Afterward, Jonathan looked to see if he was microchipped and he wasn’t. There was no question or doubt, he was ours.

Oliver, September 4, 2016 before his first bath.

With no information about this dog, we guessed his age, questioned whether he had gotten lost, and created scenarios about his previous life. When the vet informed us that Oliver was actually 7 or 8 years old, we were shocked but nonetheless resolved to make him a part of the family.

He settled into our little pack with ease. He was a little grumpy and vocal, and he looked like Sprocket, a character from the 1980s cartoon Fraggle Rock.

Sprocket from 1980s cartoon, Fraggle Rock. (Image Source: Wikipedia)

We guessed he was a terrier mixed with a poodle and maybe a big dog. His paws were big, his ears long and floppy, and one of his eyes was merle. His stare was penetrating. He was often jealous when the other dogs received affection. He looked like a little kid who was picked last, even though we always included him. He had a delicate nature and bonded mainly with people, not dogs.

On Saturday morning, Jonathan picked up Oliver for his monthly grooming appointment. Before they walked out the door, I grabbed Oliver’s face, kissed him, and said, “Bye Ollie. See you later.”

Minutes later, I received a frantic call from Jonathan. Something happened. Something was wrong. I grabbed my car keys, yelled for my mom, and ran out the door. What happens next is a blur. Jonathan is holding Oliver, he climbs into the passenger seat, and we’re off. I feigned calmness as I drove down the 605 to a local animal hospital. The cruel reality was staring at us, but we couldn’t see it yet. We hoped and we prayed Oliver would recover.

The next 48 hours were draining, but especially for Jonathan, who was glued to Oliver’s side. We took turns talking to Oliver, kissing him, petting him, and hoping our grumpy little guy would bounce back. By Monday morning, we faced the hard truth: this could be the end. By the afternoon, Oliver was gone. We held him, we kissed him some more, and reminded him how special he is.

In the days that followed, we each sat with our grief differently. I threw myself into work, but gave myself the space to feel the grief in the mornings and at night. Our little pets become so embedded in our daily routines, that the space feels large and the silence is loud without them. My friends dropped off flowers. My friends checked-in daily. I allowed myself to feel the grief.

Every dog owner makes an unspoken contract with their pet. This contract entails loving each other infinitely, with the understanding that your time together is finite. Each loss has taught me how profound grief is. Our culture may limit who we’re allowed to publicly grieve, but grieving silently is hard on the spirit. Each time we share our grief with others, it gets a little bit lighter.

I hope in every universe, I’m reunited with my pets.