Isabel Klee

“my parents were choosing the inevitable heartbreak that comes at the end of a dog’s life. They were going into it knowing how much it would hurt one day and doing it anyway. Because the loss is excruciating, there’s no way around it. But the in-between is pure magic.”
― Isabel Klee, Dogs, Boys, and Other Things I’ve Cried About

“The grief of pet loss is a quiet sort of suffering. There is no bereavement leave from work, no funeral with loved ones. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, someone will ask about your pet. Oh, we lost her last week, you’ll say. I’m so sorry, they’ll say back. And that’s it, the moment is over, and you’re expected to continue on with life like it’s any other day. Like your world hasn’t been flipped on its axis, the empty spot at the bottom of the stairs like a black hole in your living room. Pet loss is so intensely personal, so intimate and tragically singular, that others can’t really participate in your hurt. When a human dies, there are friends, coworkers, and family members—people who knew them and can recount funny stories or profound memories. Of course people knew Ruby, many of them loved her, but it was different. A pet is there with you more than any friend, any family member, and any significant other. They’re present in all your most private moments, when you can let your guard down and just be. They’re there for every heartbreaking cry, and every mindless laugh as you watch your favorite TV show. They’re there through every season, every dinner cooked, and every sleepless night. They’re there, consistent and content, no questions asked, just happy to be standing next to you. It’s something you’re so used to, something you might have taken for granted, and all of a sudden their presence is zapped from your life so quickly and violently it leaves marks on every part of you.”
― Isabel Klee, Dogs, Boys, and Other Things I’ve Cried About