Dog Grief is Real. But like all grief in America, we must bury it quickly and move on.

When Dylan Thomas told us to rage against the dying of the light he spoke of his father, but the pain from losing a beloved pet is also brutal and rips apart your heart.

If you believe in the importance of free speech, subscribe to support uncensored, fearless writing—the more people who pay, the more time I can devote to this. Free speech matters. I am a university professor suspended because of a free speech issue, so I am not speaking from the bleachers. The button below takes you to that story if you like.

Please subscribe and get at least three pieces /essays per week with open comments. It’s $5 per month and less than $USD 4. I know everyone says hey, it’s just a cup of coffee (with me, not per day but just one per month), but if you’re like me, you go, “Hey, I only want so many cups of coffee!” I get it. I don’t subscribe to many here because I can’t afford it.

Years ago, we adopted a 10-week-old West Highland White Terrier.  We named her Nika. 

It is difficult to understand the bond between dog and man.  These mute creatures burrow into our hearts; they offer part of what we aspire to in human relationships: unwavering loyalty, consistency, transparent intentions, but mostly a consistent presence; they unashamedly live in a tiny world in which we are prominent; they do not aspire and dream of moving beyond us.  But what goes on inside their minds?  It is a mystery; at our best, we anthropomorphize their behaviour, and their consciousness is a happy mystery.  We filter everything through language, and it is just speculation to imagine the composition of their consciousness.  

So wishfully, I can only try to interpret her ears dipping and rising, the different tones of her barks.  Chasing my kids around the pool, barking fiercely; that game was called “lifeguard,” and she would not be content until the kids had jumped into the water.    And in the morning, with her banned from jumping on beds, she would do her rounds, scratching at the door and coming into my room, her ears pasted back, her tail wagging, and after bashfully looking to make sure nobody was looking, she would put her paws up on the bed for a lift up.  

“Car ride, car ride, Nika,” my daughter would say, and each morning, those words sent Nika into a tizzy, thrilled to participate in the six-minute drive to my daughter’s elementary school.  One morning, Nika had been allowed in the school -  they seemed to relax the rules for twenty-pound terriers who fall in love with everyone they meet – and she went into the middle of the room of grade fours and sat down, her ears flattened with joy. 

And she was a terrific mooch; she had taken dog training lessons, but nothing had ever stuck; she had never learned a trick beyond being able to shake a paw based on English or Russian directions. Coming on command seemed more like a case in which she was heading that way. She had no problem putting her paws on your lap as you ate, asking for meat, an unrepentant carnivore.

Frequently in the evenings, I would come home late after a long commute, and as I entered the dark kitchen, as everyone slept or stared at a screen, I would feel Nika's rough paws on my knees.  When I came in through the front door, I would look through the narrow rectangle of glass to see her white furry face, black nose and twitching ears looking at me, her brown eyes glistening with what I would only see as uninhibited joy.  

Some weeks ago, I checked on Nika in my daughter’s bed.  But Nika was gone; she had passed in the early morning; she was still young at seven, taken by some unknown disease or heart failure.

The house was now quiet. There was no click, no click of Nika on the kitchen tiles, and no placid white face waiting patiently. I noticed the bottom of the kitchen door out to the backyard. The paint was worn away by the gentle erosion of a small white terrier’s paw and her frequent polite requests to be let outside to pee.  

The comparison contest of griefs is futile; surely, she was not as treasured as human children; any day’s newspaper tells stories that would tender more grief credits than a dog’s parting.  So, in the days following her death, there was always a tinge of embarrassment when I met inquiries into my well-being with, “My dog died.”

Indeed, months later, society accords me no more tears; I guess negative emotions longer than a few days are deemed to be bourgeois indulgences.

But all I know is that the space at the end of the couch is unfilled, the window by the door now clear, and the landing on the staircase is empty, no longer guarded by the little Westie who seemed fully content to aspire to no more than providing her family endless affections. 

We have a new pup. Malibu. Cheers.

Please subscribe and get at least three pieces /essays per week with open comments. It’s $5 per month and less than $USD 4. I know everyone says hey, it’s just a cup of coffee (with me, not per day but just one per month), but if you’re like me, you go, “Hey, I only want so many cups of coffee!” I get it. I don’t subscribe to many here because I can’t afford it.

But I only ask that when you choose your coffee, please choose mine. Cheers.

____________________________________________________________________