Dead Dogs & Other Griefs: A Series

Yadi died August 4, 2024. 

December of that year, my spouse, Adam’s, 14 year old cat, and old friend O’Malley passed away. They had a long history with him, but that is their story to tell. 

Spring arrived and with it, the passing of Flash. Adam’s heart and soul. It was an extremely aggressive cancer we were able to catch before catastrophe - it bought us time, but not enough. Never enough. 

Then came late spring, where my buddy, four year old Eugene, went to stay for long term boarding with a friend and colleague while we figured out the logistics for an international move. Through a lot of deliberation and consultations over the summer, we slowly realized it was in his best interest to find him a home stateside. We also reluctantly determined the same for our youngest, Haymitch, and returned him to his breeder. 

And as I’m just now talking about Yadi, I’m not sure when or if I’ll be able to talk about that very different, yet also extremely painful, kind of grief. 

That left us, a formerly very busy, very snuggly home, with Wibble the three year old Boston Terrier, and Finnick Odair. A cat of estimated age, picked out of the sick-isolation section of a shelter I had worked at 6 years prior. He had been with me for almost as much of the upheaval in my life as Yadi. My best “tiny roommate.”

And then he unexpectedly passed away in October of 2025, shortly before our move. 

In just over a year, we lost 6 close companions.

This was what I relayed to the therapist at our consultation when she asked what was happening in my life. I briefly mentioned my spouse and I were abruptly trying to leave the United States, and then discussed the easily identifiable losses. The relationships with these animals we had been spending our lives with. 

“Oh, okay. This is a little heavy for me in this moment.” She paused me. “I have two dogs of my own, and this is really difficult.” 

I wasn’t sure what to say. 

It was really difficult. 

I stopped talking about my Dead Dogs. And listened to her discuss her therapeutic practices, answered a couple of questions regarding some specific symptoms I was having. She said she would send over more information. 

We ended the call and I felt stupid for having misunderstood her question. For answering her too openly, without realizing she had just wanted the gist. 

I felt bad for making her feel bad.

After all, she wasn’t even my therapist. It was an interview.

I had thought I was being brief. Summarizing. But even that was too much. 

I stopped talking about them outside of therapy as well.
An occasional facebook post of Yadi or Finnick. A memory. A reminder of their life and a hint of their absence. 

But no grief. Grief is too heavy. 

I didn’t realize quite how much that conversation impacted me until I sat down to actually examine my grief, and so much embarrassment came up for me in the memory of that video chat. 

I chose to find another therapist, because honestly, the grief that was turning me completely inside out, that I was trying to simultaneously process and allow to exist, while also shoving it away in a dark corner attic of my mind? That was the easy stuff. That was my reality on an average Tuesday. I hadn’t even gotten to the really difficult stuff. 

But the more I reexamine it, the less embarrassed I feel, and the more I can recognize that maybe my grief is also the “difficult stuff.” And its weight deserves to be recognized. 

That is the purpose of this series: Dead Dogs & Other Griefs.

The feelings are big, and heavy. They occasionally disrupt things. They aren’t pretty. There’s no tidy ending. They just are. And it’s time I give them their own space too. Even when they don’t make a totally coherent blog post. 

You’re welcome to come along with me if you’d like.

Note: I have professional support. But grief can be really difficult alone. If you’re struggling, reaching out to a professional, warmline, or hotline as needed may be helpful.