25/04/2025
Grief Has a Scent: How Dogs Feel Loss and How We Can Heal Together
Grief isn't just a human experience — it's a universal one. And yes, dogs feel it too. They may not weep or write poetry about it (though who knows what their dreams reveal), but they absolutely mourn. You might see it in their eyes, in their sudden silence, in the way they search the house for someone who’s no longer there. They grieve in how they move, how they sleep, how they sigh with the weight of absence.
Behavioural shifts are common:
🐕 Withdrawal or clinginess
🍽️ Loss of appetite
😴 Changes in sleep
🎾 Disinterest in play
🗣️ Increased vocalisation — or a heartbreaking hush
Dogs live heart-first. When someone they love — animal or human — disappears from their world, that emotional bond doesn't just vanish. It echoes. And they feel it as surely as we do.
But here’s the beautiful, soulful part…
Just as we can be there for them, they are often there for us.
When our world feels cracked open, our dogs offer silent witness. They lie beside us with that sacred stillness only a dog can give. They don’t offer solutions. They offer presence. And in grief, presence is everything.
So how can we help them, and how can they help us?
Hold space — for them and for yourself. If they want closeness, let them in. If they need solitude, honour it.
Routine is medicine. It grounds both species. Keep walks happening, meals steady, cuddles plentiful.
Talk to them. Don’t underestimate the power of your voice, your energy, your intention. They don’t need words. They feel meaning.
Be open to the mystery. Some say dogs know when we’re speaking to the spirits. When we cry to the sky. When we whisper to the memory of someone we love. They’re right there, tail curled around our pain.
In grief, dog and human can be each other's lighthouse — guiding one another through the fog, reminding each other that love didn’t die; it just changed shape.
So yes, dogs grieve. And yes, we can support them — as they so often support us. In that mutual heartache, there is something deeply, quietly sacred.
You’re not alone. Neither is your dog.
We heal together. One soft breath, one pawprint, one heartbeat at a time.