Grief is hard. It comes in waves. Sometimes, your head is comfortably above water, while other times, you feel as if you might drown.
Caesar has been gone for almost two weeks, and I’d like to say it’s gotten easier, but the truth is I don’t think there is anything easy about losing your heart dog. It’s not something you just get over and move past—not with a bond like Caesar and I had.
While I never feel like I’m moving on, at times I feel fine—like I can manage my grief—and then other times, like today, Caesar is everywhere, Yet, at the same time, he is nowhere. He fills my mind, but when I look for him where he should be, there’s a stark reminder that he’s gone and that I’ll never see him again. Empty spaces where he used to lay; silence where his bark used to fill the air. My days are too simple without him.
I was sad when I lost Jeter in 2022, but there was also a lot of relief with his passing. He was an incredibly difficult dog. Caesar was the exact opposite.
He was quiet, well-mannered for the most part, extremely independent, and kept soldiering on. There was no relief with his passing.
While I had to carry him outside to potty, spend an hour each morning making him food, hand-feed him, and organize my life around his medicine schedule, I would have happily kept doing that forever to keep him here. He wasn’t happy at the end. I know that. I know, in my head, that I did the right thing. My heart remains so sad and broken—always asking, “What if I had tried this or that?” There is a void in me that aches for him.
I’ve tried to consider filling it with another dog. I look at photos of puppies and dogs in need, and then I feel guilty. I’ve read so many others’ stories and posts about how when you get another dog, it’s not a replacement but another creature that continues in your story. In my head, though, I keep comparing them to Caesar.
I didn’t want another dog when Jeter died, but 11 days later, I brought Gatsby home. Gatsby’s story is proof that the universe meant for us to be together (read it if you haven’t). I’ve thought a lot about how lucky I am that Gatsby came into my life and how things happened as they did.
I always thought Caesar would pass before Jeter. Why? Caesar was older and had health issues. Had Caesar passed first, I could have never had Gatsby. I could have never had any other dog. So had Caesar passed, and then Jeter, I would have come home to a dog-less house, and that would have been absolutely unbearable.
The universe knew what it was doing when Jeter passed first, when Gatsby came into my life, and when Caesar got to experience playing with Gatsby. Gatsby has been a huge help through all of this. I love him immensely. But you love every dog differently, and Caesar was just there through so much.
I know I could never replace him, but while my mind keeps telling me to find another dog to care for, my heart feels sad about the thought of letting another one in. I have such complicated feelings about it all.
Grief, guilt, joy, depression, anger, acceptance. They are not mutually exclusive emotions. I feel them all or some combination of them at the same time.Â
Why am I writing this? I guess to get everything out on paper so I can try to make sense of it. It doesn’t even matter if anyone reads it, but if someone does and feels the same, maybe there is comfort in knowing you’re not alone.
I follow a guy named Andrew Knapp on his Facebook page, Momo. I’ve found it comforting to go back and read his old newsletters on dealing with grief after Momo’s passing. If you’re dealing with something similar, maybe you will too. There is some sense of solace in knowing that this human experience is not unique to me, even though, at times, it feels like it.