Grieving Before the Loss

When your pet is aging or ailing and it’s becoming clear they’re almost to the summit…That mixture of dread, denial, and “I-can’t-live-without-them” is completely normal. And completely painful.

I can barely even write the words. I’ve tried different versions of it… heartfelt and vulnerable, austere and detached, simple and quick.

The sober reality I’m keeping at bay is that my sweet dog, Owie, may not… probably doesn’t… have a lot of years left. Maybe not even one.

Owie on a recent winter sunset stroll.

Knowing it’s coming and not knowing when makes it all harder, of course. (Though would you rather know when? I think actually not.)

Owie is 14 now. For a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, that’s impressive. He still lives his happy dog life, chasing bubbles when my little daughter blows them in the house and begging for scraps when I clean up dinner.

I never taught him not to. I like that dance.

But Owie’s front legs are turning inward. His hobble is obvious. He skips breakfast sometimes.

And instead of running to greet me when I come home, he keeps right on snoring for hours.

Also… sometimes his legs go out from under him when he’s standing. The vet has noted a heart murmur. Over the past year, he’s had a handful of heartbreaking seizures.

Yet he still erupts into joy when he sees me. He follows my children around, welcomes new visitors, and loves getting his neck scratched.

He’s not the only one in our household climbing toward the top. Posa, our other Cavalier, is 12. She’s completely deaf and has lately decided jumping up on anything over six inches is not for her. She’ll do it, but if one of us is nearby, she gives us the side eye until we pick her up.

Owie and Posa, relaxing after a walk.

Posa is still blessedly free from any ailments. I hold tight to that. Any ailments we’ve noticed, anyway.

The Terrifying Bliss of Denial

Often, when our pets show signs of slowing down and our hearts skip a beat in fear that the end might be coming, it’s not just about the impending loss.

It’s also the looming loss of the life you lived with them. The journey you walked. The seasons you weathered.

Owie came to us as a rescue dog. Found on the side of a prairie road in Texas, he was six months old and too skinny.

We hadn’t been looking for a new dog. But in the tormented months that followed Koda’s passing—my soul dog, and the inspiration behind this whole newsletter—I wasn’t the only one going downhill.

There was also Sydney Roo to consider.

Sydney was our very first Cavalier. She was just seven years old when Koda, at six-and-a-half, left us suddenly and traumatically.

Sydney and Koda were bonded. Best friends.

Sydney, left, and Koda. Thick as thieves.

They’d crossed state lines together. Played together. Tore up their litter box together. (That was when we lived in North Dakota; we litter-box trained them because of the ridiculous cold.)

Sydney and Koda snuggled and nuzzled and tried to steal each other’s treats and did all the things devoted animal siblings do.

So when Koda so quickly departed, it had a devastating effect on Sydney Roo.

Sadly, I was so lost in my own wicked grief that I didn’t even notice at first.

It wasn’t till she became noticeably thinner that I realized how much she was suffering, too.

Maybe there were other things I could have done. At the time, getting her another companion seemed like the best move.

But at the time, my first two kids were one and two years old. The idea of another puppy was daunting.

So we looked to Cavalier animal rescues. We were told rescue dogs weren’t often given to a household with small children, since it was usually impossible to know the dog’s history.

That’s when Owie appeared like a miracle. At six months old, he wasn’t quite a puppy anymore. But he also wasn’t so old that he was at risk for unknown violent streaks against small children.

My husband hopped on a plane and drove back with this totally terrified, sweet dog who wet himself every time you tried to pet him.

A few weeks in, Owie soaked into our family fabric like the sun.

He adored Sydney, who feigned her protest but grew noticeably happier.

As for me, he dove right into the role of comfort dog. In those early years, he’d sleep directly on my legs. Not nestled against me or snuggled in the crook of my knees, but on top of my bony shins. The minor discomfort it caused for both of us was overshadowed by the peace of knowing he was there for me and I was there for him.

Signs of the Past and Future

As Owie fattened up and his black-and-white fur lengthened, I noticed something bizarrely wonderful: on his left side, his fur grew out in the shape of a glossy black heart.

When Koda died suddenly, it was because of his heart.

So to me, still navigating the seesaw of grief and healing, Owie’s furry black heart-print seemed like a message of love from my little soul dog, as if he’d sent us Owie in his stead.

Will that sound crazy to some? Sure. That’s fine.

But every time that heart has caught my eye over the past 14 years, I’ve felt comforted, and I’ve been able to remember Koda with love.

So now, as I watch my sweet Owie hobble around the house, I feel dread and fear and the whisper of future panic.

Yet there are ways to embrace this stage of pre-grief. I’ll be writing about them soon.

For now, for maybe a few more days (or weeks?), I’m going to wallow in my denial. I think it’s okay to acknowledge the waning days of different feelings we feel, even if they’re not the best of choices (like refusing to face something).

I see it as being gentle with myself. For just a little while longer.

Denial, you see, is a built-in shock absorber. It lets reality in very slowly, so you don’t shatter completely.

But there’s a cost, too, which includes missing irreplaceable time with pets now and having regrets later about the connection you avoided by pretending everything was fine.

So my next letter to you will focus on shifting out of the fear into something I’ve yet to explore: active loving.

It sounds a bit uncomfortable. And also wonderful.

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Are you pre-grieving an aging pet? Or watching your pet weather something terminal? I invite you to share how you’re coping… and how (or whether) you’re handling it, good or bad. This is a no-judgment space. 💗