The Canine Companion That Filled My Empty Nest

My New Year’s resolution is to ignore the ticking clock inside my head—the one that reminds me, second-by-second, of all my impending, middle-aged catastrophes. So far, I’m failing miserably. Tick. Your dog is dying. Tick. Your kids are leaving. Tick. Your body is suddenly creaking, cracking and puckering like a rusted train on a runaway downhill track.

As I write this, my 17-year-old daughter is laughing with friends in another room. I want to bottle the sound, keep it safe, and uncork it on those long, strange days in the near future when the quiet will have settled onto this house like a smothering fog. By then, even the ticking will be gone. The dog, sensing my melancholy, leans his warm body against my leg. I reach for him with gratitude and sink my fingers into his fur. Remember this, I tell myself. Remember how you feel right now.

Years ago, when my mom lost her cat, she refused to get another. “I can’t go through that again,” she told me. And she never did. She decided to avoid the pain that comes with inevitable loss. And yet, when my beloved pooch dies, I’ll probably adopt another. I tell myself that it’s because I’m a “dog person,” but maybe that’s not the whole truth. Maybe it’s just simple math. When it comes to our pets, and children, and fragile orchids, what we get is greater than what we suffer. And so we willingly, incredibly, invite the wound.

The Furry Friend Who Became Family

Cut to today, and our friendly “companion” has 10 nicknames and five dog beds with varying levels of cushion. My husband built him a special window seat to improve his view of the street. He enjoys regular field trips to his favorite hiking sites. He has canine “friends,” expensive joint supplements and dog food with arguably better nutrition than anything you’ll find in my fridge. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to spot the pawprints of transference here. The more my teens pulled away, the more I coddled the adorable, pliable short-legged sprite in my midst.

About once an hour, he gazes up at me with the kind of adoration that this flawed human being definitely does not deserve. He keeps me laughing all day long. He’s my light and my shadow, all at the same time. I can’t imagine my days without him.

Years ago, when my mom lost her cat, she refused to get another. “I can’t go through that again,” she told me. And she never did. She decided to avoid the pain that comes with inevitable loss. And yet, when my beloved pooch dies, I’ll probably adopt another. I tell myself that it’s because I’m a “dog person,” but maybe that’s not the whole truth. Maybe it’s just simple math. When it comes to our pets, and children, and fragile orchids, what we get is greater than what we suffer. And so we willingly, incredibly, invite the wound.

Finding Purpose in Paws

I thought the ticking sound had started suddenly, recently, then I realized it had probably always been there, somewhere in the background, drowned out by the raucous, joyous, maddening, frustrating, filthy, chaotic and exuberant noises of family life — clomping boots, barking dogs, smoke alarms and banging spoons. Squealing girls and Kidz Bop and minivan doors that get stuck open in the middle of snowy parking lots, ding-ding-dinging their warning into the cold afternoon air.

In my 20s, I wondered about my purpose. I searched for it everywhere, in all the wrong places. Then, suddenly, it was all around me, furry faces and pitter-pattering feet, all snuggled up in made-to-order perfection. It felt like solving a mystery. Here! Here is my purpose!

I didn’t realize then that everything I loved was boiling in a pot, and that the water was slowly evaporating puff by invisible puff. But I know it now. After my first dog’s death, I vowed to stay more aloof with the second. This new pup would be a companion for the kids. A friendly presence in the household. That’s it. You can guess how that went, can’t you?

Embracing the Inevitable Loss

Years ago, when my mom lost her cat, she refused to get another. “I can’t go through that again,” she told me. And she never did. She decided to avoid the pain that comes with inevitable loss. And yet, when my beloved pooch dies, I’ll probably adopt another. I tell myself that it’s because I’m a “dog person,” but maybe that’s not the whole truth. Maybe it’s just simple math. When it comes to our pets, and children, and fragile orchids, what we get is greater than what we suffer. And so we willingly, incredibly, invite the wound.

I suspect I’m about to discover that the same holds true for grown-and-flown children. “Get new hobbies!” the empty-nest articles chirp cheerily. “Rediscover your passions!” Good advice, I’m sure. But what if your passion was raising children? What if you loved it, and were good at it, and aren’t ready to let it go? What then? On this point, the articles are stubbornly silent.

After my first dog’s death, I vowed to stay more aloof with the second. This new pup would be a companion for the kids. A friendly presence in the household. That’s it. You can guess how that went, can’t you? Cut to today, and our friendly “companion” has 10 nicknames and five dog beds with varying levels of cushion. My husband built him a special window seat to improve his view of the street. He enjoys regular field trips to his favorite hiking sites. He has canine “friends,” expensive joint supplements and dog food with arguably better nutrition than anything you’ll find in my fridge. It doesn’t take a psychology degree to spot the pawprints of transference here. The more my teens pulled away, the more I coddled the adorable, pliable short-legged sprite in my midst.

Cherishing the Moments

As I write this, my 17-year-old daughter is laughing with friends in another room. I want to bottle the sound, keep it safe, and uncork it on those long, strange days in the near future when the quiet will have settled onto this house like a smothering fog. By then, even the ticking will be gone. The dog, sensing my melancholy, leans his warm body against my leg. I reach for him with gratitude and sink my fingers into his fur. Remember this, I tell myself. Remember how you feel right now.

In the end, that’s probably the only resolution I can keep. As I navigate the impending empty nest and the inevitable loss of my beloved canine companion, I know that the moments of joy and connection I share with them are fleeting. But they are precious beyond measure. I may not be able to stop the ticking clock, but I can choose to be present in the here and now, soaking up every second of laughter, love, and furry snuggles.

So here’s to the pooch who completed our family, the four-legged friend who filled the void as my children grew up and moved on. May we have many more years of adventures, belly rubs, and unconditional love. And when the time comes to say goodbye, may I find the strength to open my heart once again, to welcome another canine companion into our lives. For as difficult as the loss may be, the joy they bring is worth it a thousand times over.