Here's what might happen when your dog dies:

You're going to be finding their hair for a long time afterwards. It might make you cry. You don't even want to clean it up. It's a piece of them, and they're gone.

You don't want to look at their things, but you don't want to get rid of them either. It was theirs. What if you get another dog?

You don't want another dog. Not for a while. Not when it's this hard.

You want everyone to know. You can’t talk about it or you’ll start crying.

They were a fundamental part of your life, and it’s gone. When people ask how you are, they don’t know they’re asking about them. It feels wrong to tell them. It feels wrong to not tell them.

The cashier is just trying to make it through their shift.

It feels wrong that no one new is going to know them. You carry them with you. How can everyone not know?

You want them back. You wish they’d gone sooner.

Mom came over and held Bitty for a long time, and I'm glad I didn't cut my parents out of my life before she died. They were here for the beginning. They should be able to be here for the end.

Mom said today's her birthday. She's 15 now.

I didn't really want to hear that.

I don’t have to worry about her anymore.

I don't recommend hugging after death. I didn't realize just how limp she would be. Even asleep, the body holds a lot more tension.

The vet clearly didn't want to do it, but she was crying and she couldn't move like she wanted. I just wanted it over with.

She ate an entire bar of chocolate before she went. Good treat for when the techs accidentally mess up the catheter because the body is too tired.

(They did their best. It seemed easier to use the leg that was already shaved, but I think the earlier blood draw made it harder instead. Not their fault, I suggested it.)

I don't have to worry about her anymore.

(I want her back.)

She's not in pain.

(I wanted her to stay.)

This will free me up to do so many things.

(I didn't want her to go yet.)

I'm surprised I got this much time with her.

(I wanted more.)

I can finally focus on taking care of me instead of spending energy on her and then putting off eating for hours because I've already made a meal and it feels like too much.

(I miss her.)

I don't have to worry about how long I'll be gone.

(I should have taken her more places.)

This will make apartment hunting so much easier.

(I’d rather have her.)

I keep looking for her.

I did a lot of my grieving pre-emptively, but I checked in on her so many times a day. I keep thinking I'll see her on the bed when I go into the next room.

I got the bed because I wanted her to be able to join me easily.

I can still smell her.

We memorized each other's patterns. She would heave a sigh, I would heave a sigh. I would huff a breath, she would huff a breath.

Even breathing reminds me of her.

I'm fine, actually. Except if I think too long it feels like my insides are in the process of ripping open.

I'm dancing and singing and smiling and laughing, but I can't go more than a few hours without crying.

I don't have to go home. I haven't stayed out too long. She isn't waiting for me anymore.