For thirteen years, Bruno was my constant.
Not just my dog… my rhythm.
My shadow in the kitchen.
The reason my walks were longer than planned and my heart was fuller than expected.
I didn’t know that one ordinary week would quietly turn into the hardest decision of my life.
It started with worry. The kind that sits in your chest and doesn’t leave.
Hospital visits. Long nights. Waiting rooms that smell like disinfectant and fear.
Seven days where no one could tell me why my dog was fading.
When we finally found answers, they came all at once… and too clearly.
A large cancerous mass...
A prognosis that wasn’t about recovery, but about how much more pain we were willing to put him through.
I remember sitting there, nodding, listening, while everything inside me screamed:
What if I choose wrong?...
What if I regret this forever?...
This is the part no one prepares you for.
The moment where love turns into responsibility… and responsibility feels unbearably heavy.
In the end, I chose peace for him.
Not because I was ready.
But because he deserved rest more than I deserved more time.
I held him. I thanked him. I told him he was the best thing that ever happened to me.
And then I let him go...
After Loss, the World Feels Too Quiet
Grief doesn’t arrive loudly.
It settles in small moments.
Reaching for an extra bowl that’s no longer needed.
Pausing at the door, waiting for a tail that won’t wag.
Waking up and forgetting… just for a second...
I won’t pretend I handled it gracefully.
Some days I cried in the car.
Some days I laughed at old photos and felt guilty for smiling.
I kept asking myself the same question, over and over:
Did I really do everything I could?
That question can break you… or it can change you.
For me, it became something else.
An inner pull I couldn’t ignore.
If love could hurt this deeply, maybe it was also asking me to do something with it.
Opening My Heart Again (When I Swore I Wouldn’t)
I didn’t plan to open my heart again.
I told myself I was “just looking.”
And then I met her.
A new dog. Different eyes. Different energy.
Not a replacement… never that.
But a reminder that love doesn’t run out just because it once broke you.
She sat beside me like she already knew my story.
Like she was saying, “We don’t erase the past. We carry it.”
Walking her for the first time felt strange.
Familiar, but fragile.
Hopeful, but cautious.
I joked with friends that my heart now came with warning labels.
But the truth is… loving again made me feel powerful.
Not because I was fearless.
But because I chose love despite fear.
Why I’m Still Here (And Why This Is Just the Beginning)
Losing Bruno didn’t just leave a hole.
It left a responsibility.
To listen more closely to dogs.
To speak honestly about the moments we’re afraid to admit.
To support dog parents who are lying awake at night, wondering if they’re doing enough.
I’m not here as an expert.
I’m here as someone who’s been on the floor crying… and on the other side of it too.
If you’re reading this and nodding quietly,
If part of you feels seen,
If you’ve ever loved a dog so deeply it scared you…
Then maybe you already know why I’m on this path.
I don’t know exactly where this journey will lead yet.
But I do know this:
I’m walking it for them.
For Bruno.
For the dogs still here.
And for the people who love them with everything they have.
And if you feel that pull too…
Maybe you’ll walk it with me. 🐾
