Mourning The Dog I Never Had: I Regret Not Adopting You.

Photo by Honest Paws on Unsplash

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My brother brought home a puppy yesterday. He waited the requisite eight weeks until Rosie was of age, and when that day finally arrived, I felt as though I were living vicariously through him. If I’m being honest, I doubt I would feel this level of excitement at a human child, but the “Gotcha Day” will always be in my top five.

Despite my decade-long plea for him to adopt a dog earlier, Marc insisted on waiting until he was in the “right place” in his life to take on this responsibility, because he wanted to do everything the “right way.” Seeing him with Rosie today, he reminds me of my single 24 year-old-self who became whole the moment I adopted Tovi — only I wasn’t nearly as responsible and prepared as he is now. But sometimes we just make it work, and making it work with Tovi was easy. We just fit. He was my “once-in-a-lifetime” love.

It’s a privilege to witness Marc change through the love of a dog. Maybe it is especially meaningful because I missed out on that attachment, “this dog around.” Following Tovi’s death, I adopted Millie, a dog I can’t seem to connect with. A dog who is deeply troubled, forcing me to be the strong one — a role I was not prepared for. Four years later, she remains a burden more than a friend, and my baseline fragile mental health has declined as a result of being a caretaker for a dog with her needs. Still, I’m nothing short of a superstar dog mom to her, and my life is devoted to keeping her happy and comfortable. And don’t worry, Millie has no idea how much I struggle with our complicated relationship. She only knows love.

I phoned Marc to see how their first day was going, and he told me she cries a lot because she misses her mom and siblings. I thought about how confusing it must be for a dog to be taken from all they know and placed in a brand new environment: grief, confusion, and fear all swirling around her head. My heart broke for her. He assured me that she would be OK in time, but this is part of the adjustment period. “It’s especially sad that what she misses is no more,” he said. “All of the puppies went to their new homes. She has no normal to return to. Everything changed, only she doesn’t understand that.” It’s hard enough when we do understand that we miss something there is no going back to. I can’t imagine yearning for a life that we think waits for us, but no longer exists.

My mind — face dripping with tears from the dormant memory that awoke — shifted to the night a dog named Simon slept over as a trial adoption. I found him through my local shelter’s website in a section devoted to people looking to rehome pets directly.

Roxanne’s father had died a few months earlier, and her elderly mother, who was getting ready to move into assisted living, couldn’t care for Simon. Living in a rural area, Simon had spent most of his days outside — time he used to spend out there with Roxanne’s father, but now he was alone. No more McDonald’s runs in the old pickup, where he stuck his head out the window and took in the cool breeze and delicious smells of the drive-through. Simon and his dad were inseparable, and now it was just him; he had lost his life partner.

Tovi died exactly one week before I met Simon. If I’m being honest, though, I contacted Roxanne the very next day after Tovi died. I wasn’t ready, but I was in what I can only look back on now and describe as being drunk on grief and truly believed another dog would take this unbearable pain away (especially when that dog eerily resembles your soul dog). In some unconscious part of my mind, it was as if I thought he could replace him. As if relationships just transfer. 

A week after we spoke, Roxanne and her husband drove out to her mother’s house and took Simon on a road trip to meet Jason and me, his potential new owners. At the sound of the doorbell, I turned the knob and opened the door to be greeted by Simon, who trotted right in, tail high. He casually walked around checking out this unfamiliar home — even gently greeting our cat — but he was more aloof than I had expected for our first meet. Those were my unrealistic expectations, though. I expected fireworks to go off between us — I now know that’s not how it works. Expectations only ruin things. I didn’t think in grays then — my mind could be summed up as an old black and white television from the ’50s that was dumped into this decade. I was stuck in a mindset that wasn’t on par with my wise, responsible, adult mind, transported back to a childlike state of needing everything now or crumbling into a tantrum. He wasn’t Tovi; there was no magical fairy-tale reunion like the one I had made up in my head.

Assuming it was just a meet, I wasn’t planning on adopting him right then and there, but Roxanne seemed to think that was the plan. Although I never felt pressured, she wondered if I would want to keep him for the night as a sort of trial. I was a little hesitant because I didn’t get that “You’re My Dog” feeling, but I figured I had nothing to lose. As he scratched his unkempt body, dragging his overgrown nails against our recently refinished wood floor, I silently worried he would damage it. Don’t think I don’t know how awful that sounds and how much I regret that thought.

The moment Roxanne left, it hit me that I wasn’t ready. All day, Simon jumped on the glass panes beside the front door, whimpering to get outside. I worried he would damage the glass. It was clear he didn’t want to stay inside, and I didn’t have a fenced-in yard — at a minimum — for him to have at least some supervised free time outside. Despite the gazillion long walks I had taken Tovi on every day — walks that I lived for — I convinced myself that he needed a home with a yard (as if he couldn’t adjust to life on a leash). I also decided he needed to live in a more rural area and that he would never be content being a mostly indoor dog. His whimpering continued throughout the night, and I got no sleep.

The next morning, he had to go. I was exhausted, and his presence only caused me to miss Tovi more. He felt like a stranger in my home that looked like Tovi but wasn’t him. I was broken then, I looked alive, but I was dead inside and now burdened with another layer of shame — ashamed of yet another poor choice and a previous twenty-four hours I yearned to forget ever happened. I would tell no one about this.

Early that morning, we drove for an hour through a torrential downpour to bring him back to Roxanne’s house. The kind of rain that you can’t see the car in front of you, but I couldn’t wait until it cleared up. I couldn’t wait for anything at that time. Just like driving through that rain, I couldn’t see clearly. And the tears made everything even more blurry.

It took me a few weeks (and after I had adopted the wrong dog and was now committed) until I found myself mourning the loss of Simon. He would have made a great dog — a great hiking partner. But I couldn’t do it. It was too soon, and maybe his grief was triggering mine. We had both lost someone we loved deeply. Our entire world as we knew it had shattered. And I didn’t know how to empathize then, too wrapped up in my own pain to realize he, too, was grieving and that relationships take time to build, and I didn’t give him that space. But we only know what we know from experience, and I hadn’t yet had it. Looking back, I’m ashamed that I expected him to just be my dog when I knew him for less than twenty-four hours. He must have been confused and terrified in my unfamiliar home, and I hate myself for not giving him the chance he deserved. But, I didn’t know, and going back to punish yourself with retrospect is like cheating on a test. It’s just not fair.

I’ve since gotten a job at a shelter, and I know better. Dogs can take a long time, understandably, to adjust, which is normal. As I hear myself telling prospective adopters these words, it hits me every time how much I wish someone told me. I stress this at every adoption, perhaps because I know all too well what can happen if a proper adjustment period isn’t given. Just because Tovi fit right into the puzzle of my life, not all dogs are like that, nor should we expect them to be. Yet, I did. 

Every time I can give a family hope, I think of it as a silent amends to Simon.

This was close to four years ago, and the memory continues to haunt me. A week after Simon, I impulsively adopted Millie, a 5-month-old dog. She turned out to be…let’s just say, behaviorally challenged and a terrible fit for this baseline anxious owner. In my rational mind, my internal checklist included a box for an adult dog whose personality was developed so I could make an informed decision — I never dreamed of adopting a puppy and the baggage that comes with it, especially with her. But I needed a dog that day, so I went into a shelter and literally called, “dibs!” on the very first dog I saw. I would never suggest making a decade-plus decision like this. Again, my brain was drunk on grief.

If I thought I was broken then, Millie’s presence killed me. And four years later, I still struggle to feel genuinely attached to her. I fantasize about what life might have looked like if I had kept Sweet Simon, and my heart fills with shame and regret. I’m disappointed in myself for not giving him time, and sometimes I wonder if I’m being punished with Millie. Why hadn’t I kept Simon a few more days? Why had I blocked out the part about the adjustment period when a new — and in this case, grieving — dog came into my life?

I was so broken then. I was a shell of myself. All rationality in my mind had gone into dormancy, and it wouldn’t come back for some time. I wreaked havoc on my life, and for a day, his. I often wonder what happened to him — but just for a millisecond, because it hurts too much to stay there.

I wish I'd known then what my brother knows now: that crying is normal and won’t last forever. That this dog’s world had turned upside down, and the weight of confusion and fear that must have been swirling around in his head. That we could adjust and grow together. That relationships take time to build, and if given the chance, we could have gotten to know each other and grown each other.

Not my most uplifting piece, but something I needed to confess. Blocking bad experiences out and pretending they didn’t happen only fills me with more shame. I am trying to make peace with all versions of myself, and have compassion for the younger ones who didn’t know better.

Written by Elizabeth Weiner

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Visit my website, Pet Therapy Notes, for resources and more insights on pet love and loss.