I am looking for a way to quantify my grief to explain my love for this dog. By telling you how long I’ve been with her, how I watched her be born. I want to say it weighs six tons, or is 7 million miles long, or is stronger than gorilla glue. Maybe I want to say I loved my dog more than you loved yours, like grief is a contest. It sounds so inconsequential to say, “My dog died,” so commonplace.
I spend on average 55 hours a week away from Josh, but only about 15 away from Fox and Pony. She was my shadow, she supervised my time in the bathroom, she slept under the covers in my bed, she sat by my feet while I changed the baby, or folded laundry, or brewed coffee. She snuggled me after every pregnancy loss, and every time we tried again. She made me get out of bed on days when I’d rather stay. She also got back in bed sometimes when we decided we needed more laying around.
She was gentle, loud, confident, persnickety, and protective. She was my family. She loved sunshine and walking on the left side of the alley so she could pee on that one spot and peanut butter- she loved peanut butter. She believed in keeping rituals and traditions and barking at the mailman. I knew all her little quirks and preferences , her favorite place to be petted. She’s lived in 7 different homes with me and only killed 3 chickens.
If you have been loved by a creature, then you know what I’m talking about, and you know how hard this loss is. If you haven’t I’m very sorry for you. I guess it feels like it’s so sad that how can anyone I know still be a walking around adulting person and have experienced this kind of loss. The truth is that people we meet every day are carrying loss and grief and heartache. Since the dawn of time, we have been surviving the death of those we love. When it feels like I can’t breathe, I force myself to exhale all the air in my body because I know it will make me breathe in. I say to myself, “Other people feel this,” and I try to do the next thing I need to do. Eat, sleep, shower, provide for my baby, love my husband, unload the dish machine, switch the laundry, call a friend, call another friend.

We got the diagnosis on Thursday and were able to spend the next 5 days with her just providing for her every whim and soaking up all the “lasts” with her. I think she knew her body was failing and that we were sad. On her last day, she randomly popped onto her feet from a nap and rushed over to kiss Fox on the little mouth. It felt like she was saying goodbye to him and approving of his place in the pack. She also came to the kitchen, where I was finishing up my last pump of the day, late at night to get me and bring me to bed.

Easily the closest relationship I’ve had with a non-verbal being in my life, Pony and I understood each other. I’m both grateful that she didn’t have a long drawn-out decline and am traumatized that she’s gone in less than a week. It is such a mercy that I have Fox. He is a very empathetic little baby. He cries if he sees us crying, so we try to keep it to a minimum when he’s awake. I do tell him that we’re sad, that it is okay to be sad. I tell him that we’re also happy and that two things can be true at the same time. I will teach him to say Pony for the sheer joy of him, knowing he’s not the only family member with an animal name. I wish they could get to know each other, but Pony was my dog, not Fox’s dog, I suppose. I can’t believe that it has been almost a week without my girl in my house. Josh is bringing her ashes home today, and we will spread them in any place where we see her spirit, remembering her in the beauty of this world. It still hurts so much, but life is filled with beautiful and terrible things that will “break your heart against the wind, but you will just keep breathing in.” Rest easy, Pony dog, we love you and miss you.