When You Lose the Dog Who Made You a Mom Before You Were a Mom

There’s a specific kind of heartbreak that comes from losing your dog after you become a parent.

Because you’re grieving…

And parenting.

At the same time.

Our 9-year-old dog — who would have turned 10 in April — tore her ACL at the end of January. By mid-February, we were sitting in a surgeon’s office feeling hopeful. The surgery outlook was optimistic. Recovery felt manageable. We were able to schedule it less than a week after the consult.

It felt like a hard season — but a survivable one.

And then everything changed.

A few days after that appointment, she tore her second ACL.

But there was another layer to all of this.

She had Addison’s Disease. Her body already struggled to regulate stress. Every medication adjustment, every injury, every change required careful management. What might have been “just surgery” for another dog carried added risk for her. Her system didn’t bounce back easily.

Two major orthopedic injuries back-to-back weren’t just surgeries. They were a massive stressor on a body that already worked overtime to stay balanced.

The day after the second tear, we were back at the pet ER having the conversation no one ever wants to have. We learned her quality of life was at a zero, with no guarantee it would improve. The baseline recovery for both surgeries would have been six months — if her body could even handle it.

She was on multiple medications just to keep her comfortable.

And we had to decide to give her peace.

Grieving While Parenting

I am allowing myself to fall apart.

There have been shower cries — the kind where the water is loud enough to let you sob fully. The kind where you don’t have to explain yourself.

My toddler has seen me cry. He points and says, “Mama crying.”He knows crying means sadness.

I don’t really know how to explain grief yet. We’ve been reading The Invisible Leash together, trying to put words around something that feels impossible to explain to a two-year-old.

The hardest part?

He hasn’t asked where she is.

Part of me thought that would make it easier.

It doesn’t.

It almost makes it harder.

Because I want him to remember her. She was part of his world for the first 2.5 years of his life. And I know as he grows, he’ll remember less and less.

That realization is its own kind of grief.

The Guilt No One Prepares You For

I feel guilty for making such a big decision.

I feel guilty that we couldn’t prepare him to say goodbye.

That we didn’t take one last photo.

That we didn’t know it would be the last car ride, the last night, the last moment.

I feel guilty for the relief.

Relief that we are no longer pushing medications into her body.

Relief that she isn’t restricted.

Relief that her mind and body are finally at rest.

But two things can be true at once.

I am heartbroken.

And I am relieved she isn’t suffering.

I had a gut feeling for weeks that we were heading toward this outcome. It sat quietly in my chest, even during the hopeful consult. And when we walked out of the ER after making the decision, it was snowing.

Snow was her favorite weather.

In a strange way, that felt like confirmation.

Loving a Dog With a Chronic Illness

Loving a dog with Addison’s Disease changes you.

It means constant monitoring. Adjusting. Watching for subtle shifts. Advocating. Calculating stress. Managing medications. Carrying quiet worry in the background of your life.

Her body didn’t handle big stressors easily. So when both ACLs tore within days of each other, it wasn’t just about orthopedic repair. It was about whether her entire system could survive the stress.

That made the decision heavier.

But it also made it clearer.

And in a strange way, that experience mirrored motherhood.

You learn to watch closely.

You learn to advocate fiercely.

You learn to make hard decisions based on quality of life — not just hope.

The Silence Is the Loudest Part

No nails clicking on the floor.

No letting her out into the backyard.

No familiar shape always somewhere in view.

Evenings are the hardest.

Once our toddler is in bed, that’s when she would settle in — on the couch, on her bed, always near us. Now the room feels wider. Quieter.

We moved her beds to spaces we don’t use often.

We washed her bowls.

We’re going through toys and keeping a few (she wasn’t much of a toy dog as she got older).

It feels like slowly dismantling a routine that existed for nearly a decade.

She Knew Me Before I Was a Mom

This was my husband’s first dog.

My third dog.

But my first mine.

She knew me before I was a mom. She was there for our proposal. She’s in the photos from when we brought our newborn home.

There’s a picture of her and my toddler in his room — from when he was just days old. I’m thinking of updating it to one from when he was older.

Not because he’ll remember.

But because I will.

We have photos of her around our house instead of putting them away in a photo book. There’s one in his room. There are photos from milestones. She is part of our family story.

And I will talk about her as he grows.

Because even if his memory fades, her impact doesn’t.

Parenting Through the Waves

It’s strange to feel intense waves of grief while still making snacks, changing diapers, and reading bedtime stories.

Grief throws obstacles at you at random times.

I don’t feel guilty for not actively grieving every second. But I am trying to let the emotions out as they come, because they feel big. I don’t want them to build and harden.

Sometimes that looks like a shower cry.

Sometimes it’s sitting quietly once the house is asleep.

Sometimes it’s feeling okay for a few hours — and then not.

I don’t know if this feels like closing a door yet. Maybe it will when we receive her ashes.

Right now, it just feels like learning how to exist in a house that sounds different.

And learning how to grieve… while still being “Mama.”