What You Do the Day After Your Dog Dies

The day of, shock and trauma reign. The day after, something less definable starts to seep between the cracks.

Wake, bleary-eyed. Look for dog. Feel initial confusion, followed by slow, dreadful recollection.

Cry. Wipe your face, then cry again. Decide to stop crying. Toss back the covers and drop your feet to the ground. Stare at the empty dog bed longer than is necessary. Leave the room.

Make coffee. Drink coffee. It’s somehow tasteless, but warm. Warm is good.

People must be told the news. Which people? How many? Will anyone really care? He wasn’t their dog, after all. But yes, people must be told. This dog was a good dog. A great dog. He touched many lives with his cuteness, even if only tangentially. People must be told.

Determine to make a Facebook post. That will spread the news quickly without having to speak to anyone directly. And not speaking to anyone directly suddenly feels like a very important thing to do. Or…not do? Whatever. This is not the day to be sorting out double negatives.

Pictures are needed. Can’t make a Facebook post about a formerly adorable, now-dead dog without pictures. Right? Now-dead. Repeat the words to yourself a few times. Dead. Gone. No longer here. Passed. Went over the Rainbow Bridge. You will have to choose one of these expressions to write the caption. Which will you choose? None of them seem real, or remotely applicable to the furry, lovable, snuggly best friend who was curled up at your feet just yesterday. But yes, you will have to choose one of those expressions. And you will need pictures.

Search for pictures. Find pictures. Look at approximately 10,652 pictures of your formerly adorable, now-dead dog.

Return to bed.

Do not pass go, do not collect $200. Start the whole damn thing all over again.

Wake, bleary-eyed. Etcetera. The coffee is now cold, and must be warmed up.

A new resolve takes hold. Pictures must be chosen. The news must be shared, and this dog must be remembered. Period. People must know that he lived, that he was tremendous in every possible way, and that he will be missed. Whether or not they care is irrelevant. They will gather in the town square, and they will look at his pictures. It’s all that’s left to do for him now.

Grit teeth and gather pictures. Arrange them in a pleasing way. Choose euphemism, write short-but-sweet caption, and share post.

There. You’ve done it. The news is shared.

Now what?

Make lunch. Take one bite, chew, and swallow. The food fights to make its way down a dry throat and lands like a stone. New plan: No lunch. More coffee.

Start to hear things. The click of claws on the hardwood floor. A sigh. Panting. A creak in the next room. None of that is actually there, but you hear it all anyway.

Attempt to do work. To concentrate on anything other than this hideous thing. Fail miserably.

Walk past the bowls that haven’t yet been put away. The water bowl is empty. Feel the pull, the intense need, to carry the bowl to the sink and fill it with water. Remind yourself that there’s no need to fill it now. Consider putting the bowls away, then decide against it. Not yet. Not now.

Feel the panic rise, again. The irrational, illogical panic. What have you done? How could you have just left him there, at the vet’s office? What if he wakes up and gets scared? What if he’s looking for you? What if he thinks you’ve abandoned him? Maybe you should go back there, right now. Maybe a mistake has been made. A horrible, horrible mistake.

Inhale. Exhale. Remind yourself that he won’t be waking up. This is not sleep. This is something else. Something that you’ve faced before. It’s a concept that’s impossible to grasp with this puny, simple, human mind, but you must try to grasp it anyway. To accept it.

Check Facebook. The comments are starting to appear, now. So many kind words, so many kind people. They make you feel better. Others have been here, too, in this terrible, undefinable place, in The Day After Your Dog Dies. They’re sending their condolences and sympathies, and you’re scooping it all up like ice cream.

The doorbell rings. You listen for the bark, but hear none. Oh, right. No more barking when the doorbell rings. Right. That one bite of lunch hardens in the pit of your stomach.

Approach the door to find a thoughtful friend bearing gifts of lemon cake and tulips. Teary and touched, you accept the offering, give sincere thanks, and step back inside.

Awful, awful silence. Enough silence to burst an eardrum.

Wander the house. Turn on the TV. Turn off the TV. See a shape in the corner of your eye, think it’s him—then remember. Look at the clock, tell yourself that it’s time for the daily walk—then remember. Remember, remember, remember, all day long.

Dinner time. His favorite time of the day. Was his favorite time of the day. Now there’s half-a-bag of kibble left in the pantry with no one there to eat it. An entire drawer full of treats and chewies with no one there to chew them. Leftover medicine. Hanging leashes. Dog beds and dog stairs and dog towels and dog blankets and dog coats and dog everything, everywhere, in every corner of this goddamn, dogless house.

Do laundry.

Check Facebook, again. More compassionate comments, broken-heart emojis, and sympathetic gifs. These make you cry, again, but they also make you smile. Make you feel lucky for all you’ve had, all you’ve lost, and all you still hold on to.

Write a weird little thing. Call it, “What You Do the Day After Your Dog Dies.” Feel infinitely better, but can’t explain exactly why.

Go to bed. Close your eyes and do the math: You’ve been 34 hours without him, now. Tomorrow will be dismal too, but maybe a little less dismal than today. Maybe.

Assume you won’t be able to sleep, then feel the exhaustion take hold.

Start to drift off, hoping against hope to see him, one last time, in a dream.

T.M. Blanchet is the author of Herrick’s End, Herrick’s Lie, and Herrick’s Key (The Neath Trilogy) from Tiny Fox Press. She’s also the producer and host of A Mighty Blaze Podcast and the founder of Operation Delta Dog: Service Dogs for Veterans.