A friend of mine is mourning the death of her dog.

People who know me will tell you that I’m actually not really much of a dog person. But I’ve had dogs along the way in life, and I can appreciate what it is to lose one.

Before I married, I lived with a woman who had two dogs, one of which died somewhat unexpectedly. I say “somewhat” only because the dog was never really entirely well. She was born crippled, and sort of limped and stumbled to move about. While in some ways this trial by fire made her ruggedly stronger, it was also probably physically exhausting, so it was unsurprising that she didn’t last as long as some dogs might.

It happened on a day that was pretty much like any other, not really notable, except that at the end of the day she was gone.

It was the first time I had ever dealt firsthand with a death that was visible to me in my own home, other than perhaps a goldfish. When I was growing up, I had a dog, and at some point he was taken to be put to sleep. But that’s not quite the same thing. I didn’t have to directly confront the death, only the subsequent absence. (I suppose this need to see death to fully perceive it is why some people have wakes for the dead, though I have never liked that practice. Death in any form is hard enough without deliberately adding to it.)

As part of the process of coming to terms with the dog’s death, I wrote a short story that was never published. It had been targeted for a forum that wanted stories of 150 words or less, so it’s quite brief. For whatever reason, the forum didn’t take the story. It’s not my best work for various nitpicky technical reasons, so I didn’t lose too much sleep over its rejection. It was more important to me personally than for its literary merit. Still, I had long entertained the thought I might find occasion to publish it, and this somehow seemed an appropriate time.

I’m sorry for your loss, Lauren. All I can say is that I’ve been there.