"During a hot July day in the summer of 2023, my best friends and I were sitting on a boat playing a game. Each person went around the circle and explained how they’d describe each friend to a stranger who’d never met them. We laughed about the quirks that defined us that sounded ridiculous when you separated them from the whole of the person—“her accent gets 10x stronger after a second glass of wine”—and argued about the different ways we could depict each of our strongest traits. One of mine, though, was unanimously agreed on: “I’d tell them that she has a very old dog that she loves very much,” my friend said when she got to me.
let's face it: meeting someone in the wild is a lot easier said than done
My dog, Max, was on the boat with us, enjoying the afternoon as much as we were. I had gotten him as a puppy the summer before fifth grade, a month after I turned 10 years old—that weekend, we were celebrating my 27th birthday. After laughing along with my friends, I felt the dread that was always looming in me at the time creep to the surface: I had a very old dog, and we were living in bonus time. Despite how lucky we’d been, I knew that sometime in the not-so-distant future, I’d inevitably end up becoming someone who had loved a very old dog.
I moved into my one-bedroom apartment the week before the world went into quarantine in 2020. It was my first time living alone, so I convinced my parents to let Max come keep me company during the few weeks we thought quarantine would last—four years later, he had never left. He had been my dog in childhood, and somehow, he became my dog in adulthood, too. Max had seen my first day of middle school, taken pictures with me before prom, was waiting for me when I moved back home after college, and lived with me in my first real adult apartment, where we spent nearly two years isolated together during a pandemic. He had seen every accomplishment, heartbreak, change, and growth I had ever experienced; after nearly two decades, I literally didn’t know life without him in it.
“He had seen every accomplishment, heartbreak, change, and growth I had ever experienced; after nearly two decades, I literally didn’t know life without him in it.”
At 17, Max had been considered a “very old dog” for years, but at the time, you’d never have known it. He looked and acted like a dog half his age and had an energy that made people who saw us on the street ask if he was a puppy on a weekly basis. Despite this, though, I was constantly holding my breath, fearing the day the pendulum would swing the other way. When he was 16, I could remind myself that he might still have years left, but as we were nearing 18, the future became harder to imagine. This impossible thing that was on the horizon could happen tomorrow or next month or a year from now—all of which felt too soon.
A few months after Max turned 17, he ended up getting a diagnosis that put a number on the days we had left. His condition could be managed with medicine, but the medicine came with side effects, and the side effects made his day-to-day much more difficult. I found myself constantly wondering if I could see the forest from the trees: asking myself if he was in pain, if he was happy, if the bad was yet outweighing the good. Yes, his arthritis had worsened, but he still went on miles-long walks and seemed to enjoy them; no, he wasn’t eating as much food as he used to, but he still waited by his treat jar every time we got inside. Everything felt fragile; like we were living on unstable ground. As soon as the scale would tip one way, something else would happen that balanced it back to even.
Rebecca Feinglos, a certified grief support specialist and the founder of Grieve Leave, explains that this period—the emotions that you feel about an impending loss before the actual loss occurs—is a type of grief in itself: anticipatory grief. “What we can do when we feel the heaviness of anticipatory grief when our pet is clearly at the end of their lives is to give ourselves permission to let it be hard,” Feinglos says. “Grief is hard, and there’s no way around that.”
Unlike with a person, when a pet is nearing the end of their life, you can end their suffering rather than wait for nature to take its course. To most, this is viewed as a kindness, but to me, it felt unimaginable. To decide that things were, in fact, bad enough to warrant that choice came with the risk that I was losing time with him. I didn’t want to cut his life even a single day short, and I knew that if I could ask him, he would agree. But despite the support I had from my family and friends, I knew the decision was up to me—and the weight of that choice paralyzed me.
The risk of not making that decision, of course, is an emergency stripping you of the luxury of options, which is ultimately what ended up happening to us. On his last day, we woke up and did our usual morning routine, went for a walk, and I coincidentally made him his favorite meal (ground beef and sweet potato), all without either of us knowing that they were our lasts. Instead of mourning, we got to spend the day as we always were: together, with the constant gratitude we felt for each other humming between us.
Despite the time I had spent fearing saying goodbye to Max, the immediate decisions I’d have to make in the aftermath had never occurred to me. Standing in the parking lot in my new, post-Max world, my first question was, “Where should I go?” I realized I couldn’t go back to my apartment and face all of his things, but I also hadn’t stepped foot into my childhood home without him since I was 10. Over the past two decades, “home” had become synonymous with him; now, it felt like I was without one.
“Over the past two decades, ‘home’ had become synonymous with him; now, it felt like I was without one.”
I always knew losing Max would be painful, but I still wasn’t prepared for all the ways it left me reeling. Of course, at 27, I had lost many people I loved, but this new form of grief felt like a different beast. Maybe, I thought, I had been too lucky. I hadn’t had enough practice. I just hadn’t experienced grief enough, and that’s why this was hitting me so hard. On top of the grief I was feeling, I felt ashamed by how intensely I was feeling it.
Feinglos explains that, technically, there isn’t anything that separates human grief from pet-related grief. “No grief is worse or better,” she says. “Grief is grief; loss is loss—it just is.”
“When I conceptualize loss, I look at the impact the individual lost has had on someone’s life and the hole they’ve left behind,” says Jennifer Teplin, LCSW, and founder and clinical director of Manhattan Wellness. “Oftentimes, pets can be some of our closest supports while having seen you through many phases of your life.”
After Max got his diagnosis, when things were starting to get more difficult, I made a pact to myself: For as long as he was here, and as long as I could see that he was happy, I would put my life on pause to give him what he needed. Whether that meant saying no to Friday night plans so I could stay in with him or spending extra money on treatments to improve his quality of life, I promised myself I would do everything I possibly could for him—and I did. I viewed this as a kind of insurance for my future self; surely, having no regrets or “what ifs” would make it easier for me when he was gone. Regardless, though, when he passed, the guilt I felt often felt worse than the grief itself. Guilt that his last hours were spent in an emergency room getting poked and prodded, guilt about the times I felt frustrated at our situation and allowed it to show, guilt that I let him die at all—some days, it felt like my grief was only guilt.
“When he passed, the guilt I felt often felt worse than the grief itself… some days, it felt like my grief was only guilt.”
“The guilt is what sets apart human-related grief from pet-related grief. There’s so much choice [involved with a pet passing], and that’s different often from human-related grief and human-related death,” says Feinglos. “Often, it’s a decision that you make or didn’t make, or an accident that happened that leads to something happening to your pet, and that really makes the grief hit different.”
“Guilt is very common with pet grief,” says Teplin. “We see ourselves as in charge of their caretaking, and even if there was nothing more we could do to keep them safe, having to admit that they are no longer OK can be extremely difficult. I think this guilty feeling—wishing you could have done more or been more in control—comes up with any type of loss.”
A year later, I’m able to see that I’ve experienced two sides of a coin: one with joy and love and companionship, the other with the pain of learning how to live without it. I recently had a friend of a friend reach out to ask for any wisdom I could share as someone further along in the pet grief process than her. Looking back, I realize I don’t know much more now than I did on day one, but I do know this: If given the choice between having never known Max or experiencing the weight of losing him again, I’d choose the grief every single time.
“If given the choice between having never known Max or experiencing the weight of losing him again, I’d choose the grief every single time.”
I’m not a religious person, but I can’t count the number of times over the past year I’ve wished I was so I could experience the peace of believing he was still with me. Maybe, though, that isn’t the point.
He’s with me on Sunday mornings when I wake up and start the day slow, drink my coffee with a book, and let the time pass instead of checking things off my to-do list. He’s with me on those rare winter days when there’s a break in the cold, and I notice myself taking an extra beat to appreciate the feeling of the sun on my face. He’s with me when I see something silly—another old dog in a sweater or a bird that has long legs like his—and I smile in a way I wouldn’t know to if I hadn’t known him.
He’s with me because in the mosaic of who I am, so many pieces are him—the memories we created, the lessons he taught me, the love he brought out of me. He’s with me because he helped raise me. Without him, who knows who I’d be.
Madeline Galassi, Senior Fashion & Beauty Editor
Madeline Galassi is the Senior Fashion & Beauty Editor at The Everygirl, where she leads the site’s fashion and beauty coverage, including trend reports, shopping roundups, and celebrity style. A trend expert with an eye for the latest must-have products and up-and-coming brands, Madeline is always on the pulse of what’s next and making sure readers stay in the know.