We buried Bowser today. I’m still not sure how I feel, which feels strange to write down, but it’s true. There’s relief in me, real relief, because he was in so much pain last night, and I’m glad that’s over for him. And there’s this other thing sitting right next to the relief, which is that it just hurts. A lot.
I thought I’d already done most of my grieving. He’d slowed down so much this past year, hadn’t really moved around, wasn’t part of things the way he used to be. I told myself that meant the hard part had already happened quietly, in pieces, and that when this day came it wouldn’t hit as hard. That was a lie I didn’t know I was telling myself. Anticipatory grief doesn’t discount the real thing. It just means you were already carrying some of the weight before the rest of it landed on you.

We adopted him eight years ago. Eight years isn’t long, but it was almost his whole life, and it was all with us. He was sassy in that specific small dog way. He genuinely thought he was much bigger than he was. Tough with everyone else, gentle with us. He let us see a side of him the rest of the world didn’t get, and I think that’s the thing I’ll miss most, being one of the people he trusted enough to be soft with.

We gave him a good life. I know that. But there’s a void now shaped exactly like a sassy little Yorkie boy who thought he ran the place, and I don’t think that space fills back in. I think you just learn to live around it.