The deafening silence

It’s been a week since we put our dog to sleep.

She was sick. We did everything we could, but in the end her organs started to fail, and we had to make that impossible decision. The one every pet owner dreads. We chose to end her suffering, surrounded by love. The vet came, and we were all there: me, my husband, the kids.

Even though they’re young, I wanted them to be part of it. It wouldn’t have felt right for her to go without her family around her. She was part of ours. And she deserved to leave this world knowing that.

I’m grateful we did it that way. Grateful she wasn’t alone. Grateful she knew she was loved .... the best dog, the softest soul.

But the aftermath has been brutal.

I expected some of it: the missing bark, the empty food bowl, the quiet corner where her bed used to be. The space where she’d nap while we cooked. The absence of her tail brushing against the furniture.

What I didn’t expect was the silence.

It’s everywhere. The house is so still, so unnaturally still. No tapping of her nails on the floor. No shifting sound from another room. Just ... nothing.

It’s strange how something so small, those tiny sounds of life, could fill an entire home. And now, without them, the quiet is deafening.

You think you can prepare for it. You think you understand grief because you’ve met it before. I’ve lost people. I’ve said goodbye before. I thought I knew the rhythm of mourning. But life has a way of surprising you, even in pain.

There’s always something you didn’t expect. Some absence that feels louder than anything else. And this silence? It's heavy, unrelenting, and heartbreakingly complete.