A month without you, Rhaegar
It’s been a month since you’ve been gone, and the world feels different without you in it. The days pass, but the weight of your absence hasn’t lessened. I still expect to see you waiting by the door, hear your paws padding across the floor, feel you curled up beside me as I go about my day. Grief is a strange thing—it sneaks up on you in the quiet moments, in the routines that once felt so natural but now feel hollow.
This letter is for you, my sweet boy. A way to hold onto the memories, to put into words what my heart already knows. You were more than just my dog—you were my anchor, my shadow, my constant companion. And though you’re not here, you are everywhere. In the spaces we shared, in the walks we took, in the love that will never fade.
I miss you more than words can say, and I will love you forever. 🐾❤️
I knew from the moment I saw your photo on the rescue site—you were my dog.
It took a couple of weeks to make that happen… You were already spoken for; someone had applied to adopt you. So, I went back to my search. Coal had only been gone a short while, but Brooklyn needed a companion. Yet no other dogs piqued my interest. Then Luke saw you at an adoption event. He knew I had wanted you and that I hadn’t stopped talking about you. So, I reached out to the agency again. I pushed and pushed to meet you. They finally agreed, as they couldn't get in touch with the family that had “wanted” you.
From the second you ran around that fence—legs flailing in every direction like Phoebe in Friends—and into my arms, we bonded. One ear down, the other up, all paws and long legs, you ran straight to me like you knew you had found home.
That car ride home, though, was rough. You were scared of the car, even with Brooklyn trying to show you it was okay. And then you got carsick. Brooklyn immediately scrambled into the front seat, onto my lap, to get away from you. Not a great first impression on your new sister, that’s for sure. It would take another two years for you to finally enjoy car rides—to not get sick or drool constantly while riding in one.
You were eager to please and a fast learner—quicker than any dog I’d ever had. Since you were too young to run with me, we took long walks instead. You and Brooklyn formed an incredible bond and were inseparable. If she was taken somewhere without you, you lost your mind—crying and whining, running around trying to find her until she came back. You were best friends. She was a little devil, and you were the angel, complementing each other in every way. You let her take the limelight—she was always the center of attention—but you were content watching from the sidelines, quietly but still there.
Four months after you became a part of our family, I left my corporate job, and we became “coworkers.” Whether I was working in my office, out on the back patio, or at the kitchen island, you were always there. Never more than a few feet away. Spending all our time together created a bond unlike any I’ve ever had. You calmed me, relieved my stress, and regulated my emotions. If I was having a rough day, you were at my feet, distracting me with snuggles. On the good days, you helped me burn off extra energy with a run or a long walk.
That’s what I’m struggling with most right now. I didn’t realize just how much you helped me manage my days. You kept me steady. How many times a day did I stop what I was doing to just hug you, play with you, or lay next to you on the floor?
When the pandemic hit, we spent so much time outdoors—walking or running the city, exploring state parks, hiking by the Mississippi. I thought you were living your best life. And then we moved to Sweden. I worried about how you would handle such a huge transition. But you adjusted better than I ever could have hoped. You took to apartment life and Malmö like you’d been here forever. Brooklyn? Not so much. She was stubborn and wanted to do things the way she always had. But you—you loved it here. All the parks, the walks, the other dogs you met.
Walking you was how I learned my way around the city. You had your favorite spots, and I let you decide where we’d go each day. And you had opinions. If we didn’t go the way you wanted, you’d stop walking, refusing to move until I literally had to drag you a bit before you begrudgingly followed. You didn’t like the same walk every day, so we mixed it up and saw so much of the city together.
You always loved a bench, but in the last six months, you really loved them—wanting to stop and sit for a while. Were you trying to tell me something? I chalked it up to you being eight. Our two-hour walks were a lot, so of course, you’d want to take breaks. Those bench sits became my favorite. We’d sit together, watching the world go by. People would stop to pet you, always commenting on how well-behaved and handsome you were. And you loved the attention.
You became a regular when we went out—joining us at restaurants and taprooms. You quickly learned to tuck yourself under the table and lie down. You knew that if you were well-behaved, we’d take you more places. So, we did. We even started traveling with you—taking you to Rügen, where you swam in the Baltic Sea and rode a ferry for the first time. This year, we took you to Hamburg. You were a champ on the train ride and loved exploring a new city. We had so many more trips planned. We wanted to show you the world.
You were finally coming into your own after living in Brooklyn’s shadow for so long. For two years, you got to shine as the only dog. You started to ask for what you wanted, weren’t afraid to be a little bossy about getting attention. But you were always the calming force in the house.
And then, you were gone.
Taken too soon. Too suddenly.
I didn’t even have time to process what was happening. One minute, you were excited for a walk, pulling to get where we were going. The next, I was trying to coax you into a cab, thinking you had simply strained something. There were no signs, no symptoms that you were in pain—until those final hours. I hope with all my heart that was truly the case. That you weren’t suffering before and just didn’t show it.
I would have done anything for you. But I would never let you suffer.
I hope you’re running free with Brooklyn—that she found you, took you under her wing, showed you the ropes. And one day, I hope we’re reunited, like no time has passed.
Right now, though, I feel untethered. Like I’m floating, with nothing to keep me grounded. You were my anchor—whether you knew it or not—and now I’m just drifting.
This grief cuts through every fiber of my being, hitting me when I least expect it. The routines we had each day are so ingrained in me that I don’t know how to do things differently. My morning coffee isn’t the same without you climbing all over me, demanding pets and love. I don’t have our afternoon walks, our bench sits, our explorations of the city with you leading the way. And at night, I miss you most—when you would jump onto the bed and flop down next to me while I read.
If I get up in the middle of the night, I still watch where I step so I don’t step on you. The other night, I saw a blanket on the floor by the couch—right where you always lay. I rushed over, thinking it was you. Just for a second, I thought this was all a bad dream. But when I reached out, it was just a blanket.
That’s the cruel trick grief plays on you.
She sneaks up when you least expect it—flooding your mind with memories that feel like they happened just yesterday. The things you think will trigger you don’t, while the smallest, most random moments send your emotions into a tailspin.
I’ve loved and lost four dogs in my adult life. But you, Rhaegar, you are the hardest.
You were my little man. And I miss you so, so much.
I will love you forever.