They say your dog is your best friend for part of your life, but you’re their best friend for their whole life. I keep thinking about that, over and over, like a record stuck on the same scratch. Bruce was my first dog, and I didn’t know a heart could stretch that wide or break that hard.

Ten months ago he was diagnosed, and I knew we were on borrowed time.

In a way, I was lucky, I had the chance to prepare, to soak up every walk, every cuddle, every sleepy sigh. And I am so grateful for that. I thought I was ready for his death. But nothing could have prepared me for his absence, for the quiet that fills every corner of the day, for how much I would miss him.

The house feels too quiet now. His bed is still in the corner, his leash still hanging by the door, like he might just come trotting back any second. I keep finding little pieces of him everywhere, a bit of drool dried on the cabinet door, scraps of chewed-off toys wedged between the floorboards. Everywhere I look, there’s a trace of him, as if he’s gently reminding me he hasn’t gone completely.

My days feel strange. I don’t know what to do with the hours I used to spend walking him, feeding him, or just sitting together while he dozed at my feet. The emptiness isn’t just in my schedule. It’s in me.

People tell you it gets easier with time, but right now, the minutes feel like heavy stones I have to drag from one end of the day to the other. I know the grief will eventually soften, but today it’s ache.

I was his whole world. And he was mine.