Grief is a weird thing.

It’s also probably a weird thing to open this blog with, but whatever – it’s my party. I’ll do what I want.

I don’t mean that the scope of the grief process is weird. But its timing… how it manifests itself in the most random of ways – that, that is the part that has been so weird for me.

For the last few weeks, I’ve tried (failed) to adjust to having four less legs in my home. It’s been exactly three weeks since I said goodbye to Stella Dog. And, it hasn’t been the moments when someone asks about her or asks how I’m doing that have taken me down. It’s been the sounds that aren’t there any longer.

The crunching of fabric in her bed as she made no less than and no more than three circles before snuggling in for the night, right next to my bed.

The jingle of her dog tags when she decided I was sound asleep and that the couch was a comfier bed than her own.

The constant shuffling of blinds on the door as she would stick her head around them in an effort to see outside. Her cue that I didn’t raise the blinds on schedule so she could adequately begin her day.

The barking when she would hear my car door shut.

The tapping of her nails on my floors as she raced inside (at a breakneck speed) for a treat.

And, her low breathed growl because the cat across the street was standing in my front yard taunting her – again.

Every day, I’ve looked for these sounds that have grown a part of my routine for the last eight years. I listen so hard for them, but they don’t come.

Yesterday, I glanced at the front door and realized I’ve still been raising the blinds on the front door so she can see outside. It was a split second thought while I was taking off my shoes from work, and it broke me.

Therein lies the hardest part of grief – its jolt of randomness.

Those moments were woven into the fabric of our days, but I didn’t realize it. Now, the lack of them catches me off guard at a variety of times. It punches me in the gut and an overwhelming sense of sadness creeps in.

Sometimes, tears fall. Sometimes, I try to lean into the sadness. But most of the time? I gather my things and I bolt… to the store to pick up something I really don’t need, to get in a workout or back to work.

Feelings, emotions and all the things that go with them have always been hard for me. And while logic tells me that Stella was never meant to be with me forever, that this day was going to come (whether in a few days or 10 years), logic doesn’t matter.

Grief doesn’t pay attention to the logic of “what.”

Four legs or two, it’s still loss.

And, it should be said that I genuinely thought I had experienced heartbreak before; but, nope. Past relationships and lost friendships have absolutely nothing on what I experienced while sitting on the cement floor of the vet’s office.

Real heartbreak happens when you hold the boss of snuggles and the keeper of all of your secrets as she lets go.

Processing the time.

I’m a friend of logic. I lead with thinking instead of risking. I absolutely, 110% did not have enough time to process and think about the decisions I had to make in the last few days of her time with me.

If I had to pinpoint the exact thing that eats at me a bit, it’s this. I know I would have never had enough time, but I don’t feel like I got even a sliver.

In under eight weeks, we went through several vet visits and what felt like a hundred blood tests. We knew something was causing her to have a few symptoms that seemed non-life threatening, but she acted as normal as she always has (for the scope of what normal was like for Stella).

She didn’t whine, act scared or even whimper. Not to mention, her blood tests came back good – across the board – every single time. At no point did I think what was ailing her might be cancer or even that she had been fighting it for a very long time.

A heightened calcium level presented a need for a final exam that revealed two masses. And in a matter of 48-hours, just shy of celebrating her 8th year with me, she became a completely different dog.

Stella was motivated by food her entire life. She would knock you over for the treat in your hand – or even your own food. When she wouldn’t eat real bacon, I knew something was really wrong.

In two days… she was gone.

Two days.

Stella’s story.

Stella was around for every adult decision I made after graduating college. She was a part of keystone moments in me figuring out who I am and what I want out of life.

In a column I wrote for a local paper in mid-2017, I talked about my very specific story with Stella.

How I had zero compassion levels when I brought her home.

How she never clamored for my attention as a puppy – a few snuggles and then she was good to go lie on her corner of the couch.

How she would sit in the middle of the road, just because she could.

How she challenged my patience in every which way, but taught me a world about loyalty, grace and love.

How she helped me grow up and become a better adult.

I think those are the moments that made her more than just a dog. And even in the last of her time with me, she continued to teach me about pushing through obvious pain, loving with abandon and stubbornly fighting against the inevitable regardless of the inevitable.

The oncologist believed she may have had cancer for almost 18 months, if not longer. I’ve doubled back through every sign or symptom that might have been there, and I’ve come up empty handed.

Stella lived her life without giving way to the things she couldn’t control. She snuggled. She tore through cheeseburgers at a lightning speed, she backed into as many back and ear scratches as possible, she jumped for treats, did tricks on command and took every walk like it was the last one.

We could probably all learn a thing or two about living life from her.

The grief will pass.

I know that the bulk of grief will eventually pass. Those punches and random moments won’t always cause as much sadness. And one day, the random moments will trigger reflection of a life well-loved and lived.

But for today, I am trying to lean into the sadness, to be present and to feel my way through the hard emotions. And in true Stella-fashion, she’s still teaching me in her own stubborn way.