When Losing Your Dog Hurts More Than Losing Your People.

If you cried harder for your dead dog than your dead dad, I don’t think you’re weird.

The recent loss of my soul mate, a small malti-shit called Nash, has transformed the way I perceive grief. The part of me who works as a counsellor, feels almost ashamed of all those I have supported through bereavement loss. I believed I understood grief beyond just a clinical view. I’ve lost two people I shared a bloodline with, both of whom mattered in their own way. But unlike Areola Grande, within those losses I did have tears left to cry, I still had moments to breathe.

Losing Nash was different. Our connection was profound. It pulled parts of my identity away and left me brewing in a new kind of heartache. My crusty eyed, highly anxious, wonderfully perfect boy - what made him so different to the human loss? And when will I stop feeling so betrayed by the slow ticking of days distancing me from his final breath?

I don’t give a sh*t if he was a dog, a human, or a sea-monkey. Nash, as a being, was pure open unconditional love. Animals and children, the ultimate mirrors to our instinctual selves. They are here to prompt, to teach, and if we slow down enough, to remind us how to play. I was struggling with severe mental illness when Nash came into my life, and I truly believe that most of my recovery can be attributed to him. All the therapy, lifestyle changes, the effort it took to rebuild myself; it all started with my dog as the foundation. Nash came into my life when I least expected, and he was so like me in every way. He was highly sensitive, unpredictable, loud in the worst possible moments. He was also soft, empathic and picky about his inner circle. 

Our best mate.

Maltese Shih Tzus are supposed to make it to 17, “maximum”. That was the plan. My wife came into our lives five years ago and upped his game: better diet, more regular exercise. COVID meant he had two humans fawning over him 24/7. Life was good. A couple of years back, the vet mentioned a grade-two heart murmur. No big deal, they reckoned. A year ago, it crept up a grade, but they told us not to fret. Just “keep an eye on it.”

Then one day a few months back, Nash flopped onto his back between my wife and me and screamed. His little body convulsed; he lost control of his bowels. He was in a state of dysphoria.

After a few weeks of back and forth vet trips we found out these are called Syncopes, and they are shitfully distressing. Nash’s heart murmur had increased, and randomly Congestive Heart Failure became the new vocabulary. Over the next few months, Nash was put on medications he hated, he couldn’t keep fluid off his lungs and his breathing was laboured. As the weeks moved by, the syncopes increased, and Nash's little heart fought harder to keep up. It was confusing because he was not senior, and he still loved playing and going for drives. But most other aspects of his personality were diminishing. It’s not too often in a lifetime we have to sit down and decide when we’re going to extinguish another being’s life.

I cornered the vet and asked, “How much time are we talking? A year?” She grabbed her stethoscope and spent what felt like a century listening to his rhythm. She frowned and smiled all at once. “A few months, at most. I’m so sorry.”

In her gentle, I-hate-this-part-of-my-job way, she gave me another round of drugs and sent me off to play palliative care nurse. 

Our final 48 hours of love.

Nash could not stand the drugs. In all honesty, they were really just a mechanism to keep me happy. Magical beans that could increase my time with him by perhaps a month at most. Chicken nuggies are doggy crack, so after the vet, I took Nash to McDonald’s for a treat. He could barely manage two of his beloved McNuggets. After that my wife and I took him to his favourite park, and cried together. The next day, I made a call to an angel in human form. A beautiful vet who supports euthanasia at home, her voice was authentic, open, and deeply loyal to Nash and his needs. I asked her to come the next day. 

Nash sat between my legs as I arranged his death. He looked up at me as if to say, It’s okay, Mum. I’ve got you, it will be alright now. That moment breaks me still. Knowing he was holding on for me, not himself. He was ready; I wasn’t. But in Nash’s story, for his heart to stop breaking, mine had to start. That’s grief. The trade-off. The shitty deal we make for love.

Nash and Bree.

We spent our last twenty four hours cuddling, eating, crying, and on his final morning - together at the beach, chasing his ball with the small amount of energy he had left. I won’t walk you through the distressing task of needing to be strong for an animal as you support them through the logistics of the dying process. I urge anyone with a pet to be there for their final moments if you can. And yes, it will be one of the hardest things you ever do. Nash went to rest with three loving women by his side, myself, my wife and the vet. We told him how wonderful he is, how he is always loved, that he will be okay on his next journey and we are right here with him.

Disenfranchised grief is the pain of losing something that society doesn’t recognise as “important.” It’s the grief of miscarriage, infertility, a breakup that wasn’t deemed “serious enough.” The sore silence that comes when people expect you to get over a loss that has nestled into your core. To simply ignore an ache that will not soften.

If you feel unseen in your grief, I f*cking see you. Your love was real. Your pain is valid. And the weight of your loss is exactly equal to the weight of those you loved. If you are navigating the death of a loved one, I don’t doubt you are being pummelled around the storm of guilt. The grieving mind, latching onto self-blame - a testament to your love, to the caretaker within who is trying to search for answers. Remember, only loving parents, partners and friends feel guilty. It is your mind finding a way to feel in control during a time where we have so little.

While this is my first time sitting in the poo of bereavement, I’ve witnessed many loved ones who are grieving, gradually take the knives out of their hearts, month by month, with great success. They never forget the ones they’ve lost, but instead, they grow around the immense shape of the pain. If you’re struggling, lean on your trusted people; connect with your body, with nature, with support (Grief Australia, Griefline). There’s no need to go it alone; the one thing all humans are guaranteed to experience is loss. Life is loss.

Stay connected,
and cuddle your damn dog for me.

Nashy.