I didn’t know losing a dog could hurt this deeply - here are the 10 things I never expected to feel

I thought I was prepared. I'd read articles about pet loss, talked to friends who'd been through it, and told myself I understood what was coming. But when my dog died last month, I realized I didn't know anything at all.

The grief hit me like a physical blow. And not just grief, but a dozen other emotions I never anticipated, showing up at the strangest times in the strangest ways.

If you're going through this right now, or if you're trying to understand someone who is, here's what I wish someone had told me.

1) The silence is deafening

Nobody warns you about the silence.

I came home that first day to an apartment that felt like it had been drained of something essential. No clicking of nails on hardwood. No jingling collar. No excited breathing by the door.

Just quiet.

My partner and I kept looking at the spots where she used to be. The corner of the kitchen where she'd wait during meal prep. The patch of sun by the balcony door. The space at the foot of the bed.

It wasn't just that she was gone. It was that her absence had a sound, and it was louder than I ever imagined possible.

I found myself turning up music and podcasts constantly, just to fill the void. Anything to not hear that terrible quiet.

2) Your body physically aches

Grief lives in your body in ways you don't expect.

My chest felt tight for weeks. I'd wake up with my jaw clenched so hard my teeth hurt. My shoulders stayed locked up near my ears, like I was permanently bracing for bad news.

The Mayo Clinic notes that grief can manifest as physical symptoms including fatigue, body aches, and changes in appetite. But knowing that intellectually and experiencing it are completely different things.

I'd be sitting at my desk trying to work and suddenly feel this wave of exhaustion so complete that even keeping my eyes open felt impossible. Not the tired you get from a bad night's sleep, but the bone-deep weariness that comes from carrying something heavy inside you all day.

The weirdest part? My arms felt empty. Literally, physically empty. Like they were missing the weight of her head, the warmth of her body, the solid reality of her presence.

3) Everyday objects become landmines

Her water bowl. Her leash hanging by the door. The bag of treats in the pantry.

I couldn't look at any of it for days. My partner quietly moved most of her things into a closet, but somehow that felt worse. Like we were erasing her.

Then there were the things I couldn't move. The worn spot on the couch where she always slept. The scratch marks on the doorframe from when she was a puppy and we were still teaching her not to jump. The stain on the rug from that time she got sick and I stayed up all night with her.

I spent an entire afternoon just holding her collar, running my thumb over the metal tag with her name on it. Such a small object to represent thirteen years of life.

Even now, I'll find one of her toys wedged behind furniture or discover a tuft of her fur in a corner, and I have to stop whatever I'm doing and just breathe through it.

4) People don't always get it

This one surprised me the most.

A few days after she died, someone at the coffee shop asked me how I was doing. I mentioned that my dog had just passed away, and they said, "Oh, that's too bad. But hey, at least now you can travel more easily."

I just stared at them.

Or the well-meaning friend who suggested I get another dog right away, as if she were a broken appliance I could simply replace.

The thing is, people who haven't experienced it don't understand that losing a dog isn't like losing a pet. It's losing a family member. A daily companion. A being who knew your routines better than you did, who sensed your moods, who gave you a reason to come home.

It's losing the one creature who was always, unconditionally happy to see you.

I learned to just nod politely when people minimized it. The ones who got it, really got it, didn't need explanation. They'd just look at me with this recognition in their eyes and say, "I'm so sorry. I know how hard this is."

5) You feel guilty about everything

The guilt is relentless.

Should I have taken her to the vet sooner? Did I miss signs? Was I patient enough with her in those last difficult months? Did she know how much I loved her?

I tortured myself replaying the last few weeks, looking for moments I could have done better. That time I was annoyed because she woke me up at 3am. The walk I cut short because I was tired. The afternoon I worked through her dinner time and she had to wait.

All these tiny, normal moments suddenly felt like massive failures.

My partner finally sat me down and said, "You gave her thirteen years of good life. You're remembering the exceptions, not the rule."

But knowing something rationally and feeling it are different things. The guilt still shows up, usually at night, usually when I'm trying to sleep.

6) The "lasts" haunt you

If I'd known it was the last time, I would have paid more attention.

The last walk. The last car ride. The last time she rested her head on my lap. The last time I said her name and she looked at me with those eyes that seemed to understand everything.

I keep running through these moments, trying to make them sharper, clearer, more permanent. But memory is a terrible storage system. Already some details are fuzzy.

What I'd give for one more walk around the neighborhood at sunset, her stopping to sniff every interesting spot while I pretended to be patient but was secretly glad for the excuse to slow down.

What I'd give to hear her bark one more time, even though it used to drive me crazy when she barked at the mail carrier.

The problem with lasts is you usually don't know they're lasts when they're happening.

7) Joy feels like betrayal

About two weeks after she died, I caught myself laughing at something on TV.

And then immediately felt sick about it.

How could I laugh? How could anything be funny? What kind of person moves on that quickly?

This became a pattern. Any moment of normalcy felt like I was dishonoring her memory. When I got absorbed in work, when I enjoyed a meal, when I had fun with friends, there'd be this voice saying, "You shouldn't be okay right now."

I've mentioned this before, but our emotions are messengers, not enemies. This guilt about feeling joy was actually my grief trying to prove how much she mattered.

But she wouldn't have wanted me to stop living. Dogs don't hold grudges or want us to suffer. If anything, she'd probably be annoyed that I was moping instead of going outside where all the good smells are.

That doesn't make it easier, though. The joy still feels complicated.

8) You miss the routine as much as the dog

I didn't expect to grieve the structure.

For thirteen years, my days were organized around her. Morning walk before coffee. Lunch break meant a quick trip outside. Evening walk at sunset. Bedtime routine that included making sure she had water and saying goodnight.

Without those anchors, time felt weird and shapeless.

I'd get up in the morning and think, "Now what?" I'd come home from errands and realize there was no reason to hurry. I could stay out as long as I wanted. I could eat dinner at any time. I could work late without guilt.

This should have felt like freedom, but it felt like floating untethered.

Sarah, who lost her cat last year, told me she felt the same way. "I kept waking up at the time I used to feed him," she said. "My body remembered even though my brain knew he was gone."

Our animals shape our lives more than we realize until they're not there to shape them anymore.

9) Other dog owners become impossible to be around

I can't walk through my Venice Beach neighborhood anymore without this complicated knot of emotions.

Every person with a dog feels like a personal attack. There's jealousy, which makes me feel petty and small. There's longing, which makes me want to stop every dog owner and ask if I can just pet their dog for a minute. There's this weird anger that they still have what I lost.

The worst is seeing dogs that look like her. Same size, same coloring, same way of walking. My heart jumps every single time before reality crashes back in.

I've started taking different routes on my photography walks, avoiding the spots where dogs congregate. The farmers market on Saturday mornings, which used to be our routine, is too hard right now.

I know this is temporary. I know eventually I'll be able to see other dogs without this reaction. But right now, every wagging tail is a reminder of what's missing.

10) The love doesn't go anywhere

Here's what I didn't expect at all.

The grief is intense because the love is still here. It didn't disappear when she did. I still love her just as much as I did when she was alive, but now there's nowhere to put it.

I can't express it through belly rubs or treats or long walks. I can't show it by brushing her coat or talking to her in that ridiculous voice I used just for her.

All that love is just suspended, floating around inside me with nowhere to land.

My grandmother, who's lost more than her share of pets over the years, said something that helped. "The love never goes away. You just learn to carry it differently."

I'm still figuring out what that means. Maybe it's keeping her collar on my dresser. Maybe it's looking at photos without falling apart. Maybe it's eventually getting another dog, not as a replacement, but as a new place for all this love to go.

Or maybe it's just accepting that she changed me, permanently, and that carrying this love for the rest of my life is actually a gift, not a burden.

Conclusion

Losing a dog isn't something you get over. It's something you integrate.

Two months in, I'm not "better." But I'm learning to live with this new reality. The grief comes in waves now instead of being constant. I can think about her without crying every time. I can look at her photos and smile at the memories instead of only feeling the loss.

If you're going through this, be gentle with yourself. Let it hurt. Let it be complicated. Let yourself feel everything, even the parts that don't make sense.

And know that the depth of your grief is a testament to the depth of your love. That's not nothing. That's actually everything.