The first week after I lost my dog, I couldn’t bring myself to move her bowl.
It was just… there.
Like she might walk in, tail wagging, and expect dinner.

If you’ve ever lost a pet, you know exactly what I mean.

People say things like:
“It’s just a dog.”
“You can get another one.”
“At least it wasn’t a person.”

I’ve coached people through breakups, divorces, burnout, redundancy. But the grief that comes from losing a pet?
It hits differently.
Because they’re not just animals. They’re part of your rhythm.
They sit with you in silence when no one else knows what to say.
They greet you like you’re the centre of the universe—even if you’ve just popped out to the shop.

When you lose that kind of presence… the stillness afterwards is loud.

I had a client who lost her cat of 17 years. She cried, then apologised. She said, “I feel silly. It’s not like it was a person.”
I stopped her there.
Grief doesn’t need permission.
It doesn’t check whether your loss is socially acceptable. It just arrives.
Raw. Relentless. Real.

Here’s what I told her:

• Feel it fully. Don’t shrink it down to make others comfortable. If your heart is broken, don’t pretend it isn’t.

• Honour the bond. Talk to them. Write about them. Create a little ritual—light a candle, frame a photo, plant something. That relationship mattered. Still does.

• Give it time, but not a timeline. There’s no expiry date on missing them. I still say my dog’s name out loud sometimes. And that’s okay.

I’m not writing this to offer a five-step fix.
Grief doesn’t work that way.

I’m writing this because maybe, like me, you needed someone to say:
You’re not silly. You’re human. And this hurts because it mattered.

And that love?
It doesn’t end.
It just changes shape.

Some days it stings.
Some days it softens.
But it never disappears.

So if the bowl’s still there…
That’s alright.
You’ll know when it’s time.

Until then, be kind to yourself.
They would’ve wanted that.