I didn’t know that this was the last time I would see my dog.

Mornings were perfectly normal.

That’s what hurts the most.

No warning. No strange feeling in my chest. No sense that this moment would become one I would replay for the rest of my life.

I had been running late. Shoes half off, keys in my hand, mind focused on everything but what was in front of me.

My dog ​​was standing by the door like he always did.

Tail wagging. Eyes bright. Waiting.

“Goodbye,” I said, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. That’s how I always did. The same words I’d said a thousand times before.

He leaned into my hand for just a second longer than usual. I remember noticing it—how warm it felt, how solid and real.

Then I stood up.

“I’ll be back later,” I told him.

I didn’t hug him.

I didn’t kneel.

I didn’t look back before closing the door.

Because why would I?

I didn’t know it was the last time I would see him alive.

That afternoon, while I was at work, my phone rang. I almost ignored it. When I finally answered, the voice on the other end was trembling.

Something was wrong.

I don’t remember the drive home. The way my hands were shaking on the steering wheel and the way my heart felt like it was trying to get out of my chest.

It was over when I got there.

He was lying on the floor where he liked to sleep in the sunlight. So still. So still. As if the room had forgotten to breathe.

I fell to my knees beside him.

I called his name even though I already knew it. I touched his skin, still warm, like maybe — maybe — I was wrong.

I wasn’t.

They said it was sudden. Something in his heart. No mark. No pain. Just… gone.

People tell you that’s the best way. That he didn’t suffer. That I was lucky.

I don’t feel lucky.

All I can think about is the way I walked out the door. The way I treated him that morning was warranted.

I would give anything to go back and do it differently.

I would kneel.

I would wrap my arms around him.

I would bury my face in his fur and tell him how good he was.

I would tell him thank you.

Because he was there for everything.

For my worst days.

For the nights I cried on the floor and didn’t want anyone else to see me.

For the quiet moments when the world felt too loud.

He knew before anyone else when something was wrong. He would sit close. Press against me. Rest his head on my leg like it was his job to keep me here.

And I finally failed him.

This is what my mind tells me, over and over again, especially at night.

The house feels wrong without him. Too quiet. Too empty. I still hear his nails on the floor sometimes. Yet I reach down to pet him without thinking.

His bed is still in the corner. I can’t bring myself to move on.

People say time helps. That it gets easier.

What they don’t tell you is that grief doesn’t go away — it changes.

It shows up when you open the door and no one greets you.

When you drop food on the floor and expect it to disappear.

When you wake up from a dream where everything was fine.

I texted my friend a few days later and said, “I keep thinking I hear him.”

He replied, “That means he’s still with you.”

I don’t know if that’s true.

But I do know this: Love doesn’t end just because the heart stops beating.

If you have a dog waiting for you right now, please stop for a moment. Look at them. Touch them. Tell them you love them even if it seems silly.

Because one day, without warning, an ordinary morning can become the one you wish you could live.

I had no idea that this was the last time I would see my dog.

And I will carry that goodbye with me forever.