Part of the series Men & Grief.
How men grieve ·
Grief after a breakup ·
When work falls away ·
Grief for a pet ·
Supporting a grieving friend
You might think it’s not that bad. “It’s only a dog,” right? That’s what people often say.
But sometimes a loss hits mercilessly — and you don’t understand why it cuts so deep.
My first dog died suddenly. And suddenly it wasn’t only him standing before me, but also my cousin — who had died years earlier, far too young. I confused their names. Memories. Feelings. As if my body didn’t know which of the two I was actually losing. Everything came up. Like waves you don’t see coming.
And then, three years later, the second dog. This time no chaos of emotions, but something else: responsibility. We knew she was at her end. Making sure I did what was right — for her. Not for me. No postponement, no hope for a miracle that wouldn’t come.
We walked together one last time. Short. Slow. As if she knew this was it. And so did I.
And afterwards she lay beneath a tree, overlooking the Jura. An African dog who died in Switzerland — peaceful, gentle, without fear.
That was my grief. Not heroic. Not grand. But real.
Sometimes the loss of an animal opens the door to other grief. Sometimes it’s simply what it is: a farewell to a companion who quietly always stood beside you.
And sometimes… it just hurts.
Period.
Why does it cut so deep?
The death of a pet is often underestimated. Especially as a man you may feel pressure to “handle your grief with limit and ‘reasonably’.” To be pragmatic. But for many men, an animal is not “just” a pet. It’s a companion. A witness. Someone who was there with you, without judgment. With whom you could roughhouse, or cuddle.
A dog who walked with you every morning, who shared every silence. Who asked for nothing except your presence. And that’s precisely what makes the loss so intense — because it touches something old, something honest. Something you may not share with many people, but did share with this animal.
For me it wasn’t only about her death. It was everything she embodied.
My years in Africa. The death of my cousin. My own story.
Sometimes grief is not one moment — but a stream of memories folding into each other.
No script, no manual
As a man you rarely get space to feel grief without explanation. You’re supposed to “do” something with it. To fix, process, close it. But grief doesn’t ask for a solution. It asks for a place. And time. And sometimes just silence.
Most people — even well-meaning — don’t know what to say. And so they often say things like: “You can always get another dog.” Or: “She had a good life.” It’s meant kindly. But it feels as if your grief is skipped over. As if it’s not allowed to weigh heavily.
You might swallow your tears. Wash down the lump in your throat with a beer. Just keep going. Because that’s how you’ve been taught. But under that self-control lies something rawer. Something that doesn’t want to be fixed, but acknowledged. Not erased, but felt. Grief without a script is hard. But it’s also honest. It takes courage not to run from it.
And sometimes that grief comes in waves. In a scent you suddenly smell. In the emptiness beside your bed. In the routine that no longer exists. It isn’t a straight line. And it doesn’t have to be.
Grief as a tribute
In how you grieve, you honour that life. Not with big gestures, but with attention. With a walk. With a quiet moment at the place where you always sat together. With the story you tell — even if it’s only to yourself.
Grief means there was something worth loving. Something that touched you, shaped you. Something you now miss. And that missing is allowed.
You may doubt a hundred times: did I do it right? Was it the right moment? Could I have done more? That’s normal. Carrying responsibility is a sign of love. But the truth is often simple: you did what you could, with what you knew, in the moment it was needed.
Grief is not weakness. It’s an echo of love. And of connection. Even if no one else sees it. Even if the world dismisses it.
You know what it meant. And that is enough.
That Last Walk
Maybe that’s the greatest gift animals give us: they teach us to grieve without shame. Without words. Simply by being present. By reminding us that real closeness needs no explanation.
And yes, it hurt. But it broke something open that needed to open. Not because I wanted it, but because it was time.
That last walk, slow and short — and then under that tree, with a view of the Jura. No drama. No big gestures. But love, until the very last moment.
And maybe that’s exactly what grief is: staying. Not running. Not fixing. Just staying — with what’s real.
Part of the series Men & Grief.
How men grieve ·
Grief after a breakup ·
When work falls away ·
Grief for a pet ·
Supporting a grieving friend
