There are losses that bruise you, and then there are losses that hollow you out.

I thought I understood grief. I had been to funerals, both for distant relatives and for the ones close to me. I had seen people cry, watched as coffins were lowered, and heard the usual words about peace and rest. But nothing prepared me for the kind of grief that comes when the life lost is the one that met you at the door every day, followed you around like a shadow, and loved you without conditions.

Pet grief is different. It’s sharper, quieter, and earth-shattering in a way that’s hard to explain.

My first real heartbreak happened in second-year high school. The morning was dull and cold, the kind that tells you something is about to change. I stepped outside, ready to leave for school—uniform pressed, breakfast eaten, routine intact.

Then I saw him.

Jordan, the dog who had been with me since I was born. An aspin with the markings of a German Shepherd, full of endless energy and a loyalty so steady it felt like one of the laws of nature. For thirteen years, he had been the constant in my life.

Now he was lying still on the ground.

I went to school anyway, because that’s what you do at that age. You perform normalcy because you think it will protect you. But halfway through class, the truth broke through. I cried in front of everyone. My friend held me close as if she could mend what was broken.

Ten years have passed since Jordan died. The mango tree we buried him under has grown. Life has shifted. And yet that loss still glows inside me like an old scar—healed, but never forgotten.

And he was the first loss, not the last.

Randall.
Doots.
Stannis.
Mal.
Maru.

Each name is a small universe. Each carries its own story. Each carved a mark on my heart.

And then there was Cosme.

A white puspin with blue eyes, lazy and affectionate, who loved string beans and other vegetables. He slept to the sound of kalimba music and hummed melodies. He lived with us for a decade. And when he died earlier this year, it broke something in me.

The worst part wasn’t the end. It was the unraveling of his final days. We tried everything. But age and illness move on their own timetable. One cold morning in February, he slipped away.

After that, I couldn’t go to school. I couldn’t pass by his favorite mat. I couldn’t eat string beans or touch the kalimba or even hum without choking on grief. People tried to comfort me. “He was just a cat,” some said. They meant well but unaware of how violent those words felt.

But he wasn’t just a cat. He was Cosme. The same way Jordan wasn’t just a dog.

Here’s what I’ve learned: Sometimes people downplay the grief of losing an animal because they don’t know how to hold that kind of tenderness. Sometimes they say “just a cat” or “just a dog” not out of cruelty, but because they think it will make the pain smaller.

It doesn’t.

Eventually, I returned to my life, as we all do. I started functioning again. But grief doesn’t return you to who you were. Grief reshapes you into someone else. Someone who sees echoes of Cosme in Azrael, Daisy, and Keso. Someone who recognizes Jordan’s spirit in Tasha, Tyroe, and Callie.

Sometimes I ask myself the question all animal lovers ask in quiet moments: Am I setting myself up for more pain?

Maybe I am. Maybe that’s the price of loving deeply. But if the choice is between loving and grieving, or never loving at all, then I choose love every time.

I would rather carry the ache than live without the memory of them.

So I breathe. And I love. I carry them all with me for the rest of my life.