12/04/2025
Sharing this from a rainbow bridge page. Many of my clients have said good bye to a cherished pet this past year. š
The Christmas That Broke Me Wasnāt the First One Without My Dog⦠It Was the First One They Forgot He Existed.
My heart didnāt break the day my dog crossed the Rainbow Bridge.
It didnāt even break when I packed away his toys or when I washed his last blanket.
No.
My heart broke on a December morning, staring at a cheerful Christmas invitation that didnāt mention him at all.
My name is Margaret. Iām 76 years old, living alone in a quiet condo in the suburbs of Chicago, and I want to tell you about the Christmas that almost shattered me ā not because of my dogās death, but because of how quickly the world moved on from him.
The world forgets pets quickly.
But grief doesnāt.
For twelve wonderful years, Christmas at my house belonged to Buddy ā my golden retriever with the jingle-bell collar and the tail that knocked over every decoration I owned.
He was the heart of my holidays.
He was my noise, my purpose, my morning alarm, my reason to smile.
And when my husband Frank died, Buddy stayed.
He stayed when the kids moved out.
He stayed when the house got quieter and the winters felt longer.
He stayed until he couldnāt.
This year was my first Christmas truly alone.
A week before the 25th, my daughter Jessica texted:
āMom, youāre welcome to come over Christmas afternoon if you want!ā
Afternoon.
If you want.
No mention of Buddy. No, āWe miss him too.ā
No space for the soft ache I carry every single day.
I typed back:
āSounds lovely! Iāll bring something sweet.ā
Because thatās what grieving pet parents do ā
we hide our heartbreak so we donāt sound dramatic about ājust a dog.ā
Christmas morning came.
For the first time in twelve years, there was no wet nose nudging my hand.
No jingling collar.
No warm weight at my feet.
My home was clean. Too clean.
His stocking hung up because I couldnāt bear to put it away.
I made a single cup of coffee and sat in a living room decorated for a little soul who would never knock over my tree again.
And the silence ā God, the silence ā felt like it was swallowing me whole.
Around noon, I drove.
I passed houses with cars stacked in driveways, kids running outside, and dogs wearing little red sweaters.
Every window I looked through showed a family ā complete.
And I realized something about losing a pet:
People expect you to move on long before your heart is ready.
They think grief ends when the pawprints fade.
They forget the way your entire world tilts when a furry angel leaves it.
When I arrived at Jessicaās house at 4PM, the noise hit me like a wave.
Kids laughing. Dogs barking. The smell of roast in the oven.
Her dog, Milo, ran to the door wagging his tail.
Everyone said, āMerry Christmas!ā
But no one said Buddyās name.
No one asked how I was doing without him.
No one remembered the piece of my heart that didnāt make it to December.
I smiled.
I ate the cold turkey.
I laughed when it was appropriate.
But inside, it felt like Buddy died all over again ā because the world had moved on, and I hadnāt.
On the drive home, the truth settled in my bones:
Losing a pet isnāt just losing āan animal.ā
Itās losing the one soul who made you feel like the center of someoneās universe.
And the hardest part is grieving alone, while everyone else goes on like nothing changed.
So if you know someone who lost a pet this year, please hear me:
Call them.
Say their petās name.
Ask for a memory.
Acknowledge the empty space beside them.
Donāt assume theyāre āfine.ā
Donāt assume theyāve āhealed.ā
Because someday, youāll understand:
The greatest gift you can give someone who lost a petā¦
is simply remembering that their love never died.