Grief is a hole. Love is a ladder.

Warning: the dog dies at the end. 💔

Before we dive into the saddest day of my life, a quick and heartfelt thank you to everyone who bought my zine. Not to be dramatic, but I finished it in a haze of grief and it became a lifeline during these dark weeks. Copies are still available—just hit reply and tell me you want one.

Everything began to unravel for Calvin, our dog, in early September. A series of small events that, taken alone or faced by a younger pup, would have barely registered. For our boy—a big mutt pushing fifteen years and 120 pounds—it turned out to be too much. 

It started Thursday morning, with an emergency surgery to remove a tumor on his leg that had split into an open wound. Right before they took him back, the vet sat me down and told me what we were up against. 

“A dog like this gets twelve years, thirteen if he’s really lucky,” he said, not unkindly. “Your dog is fourteen and a half. Are you sure you’re not being greedy?” 

Of course we were being greedy. But we also knew Calvin was happy, cared for, and comfortable. He went on slow walks every day, relished his nightly dessert of baby carrots, and still rolled gleefully in the grass, tongue hanging out of his wide grin. We promised that when his quality of life had declined, when he could no longer enjoy the things he once loved, we’d be brave enough to say goodbye.

Not for our sake, but for his. 

Except it wasn’t time. We knew this in our hearts; we weren’t being greedy. If Calvin could speak, he would say “Not yet.” Plus, the alternative was letting him decline at home, slowly and painfully, as the wound worsened. Surgery was a risk we had to take.

The risk paid off. Calvin emerged, victorious and tumor-free. The vet told us it was probably cancer, and it would very likely come back, but we didn’t care. We buried our heads in his fur and cried tears of relief. We were overwhelmed with gratitude for one more day, one more weekend, one more chance to tell him he was the best boy that ever lived. 

In the end, one more weekend was all we’d get. We’re still grateful for it. 

In the very early hours of Tuesday, everything changed again. We woke at 1:30 in the morning, Calvin in the bed between us, and knew right away that something was very wrong. His breathing was shallow and he kept moving his head back and forth, resting it on Nathan’s torso, then nestling it into my arm. We contemplated driving to an emergency vet, but didn’t want him to spend his last moments in a strange and scary place. We decided to wait until morning, when someone could come to our house and help us say goodbye. 

For five hours we laid with him, petting him, soothing him, crying into his fur. No one slept. The sky began to lighten through our bedroom window, and I sighed with relief even though my heart was breaking—I didn’t want him to die in the dark, and he gave us that gift. Very gently, with the help of a large beach towel, we carried him outside, then wrapped him in the quilt from our bed, the one that smelled like all three of us. Finally, he seemed to relax. He always loved the backyard. Nathan called the vet and she said she’d be at our house at 9:30. But Calvin didn’t make it that long. 

I’ve never held an animal while he passed from this world to the next, never watched a creature I love with my whole stupid heart cease to exist. It’s a profound experience and a terrible privilege. I hated every moment, but I would do it again in a heartbeat.

It’s been a month since that awful morning, and it’s still hard to accept that he’s gone, that I live in a world without my dog. I can still smell his corn chip scent if I close my eyes, can still feel his coarse fur under my hands, the pressure of his nose against my leg. In those first moments of waking, the weight of his body sleeping between us is palpable. I still bend my body, contorting myself for his comfort. 

I know these memories will fade. In some ways, it’ll get easier. I’ll laugh as I remember his antics and hijinks, how I tripped over him while trying to cook dinner, the trails of drool he left on the floor, his big wide grin, how joyfully he rolled in the grass. But forgetting is another kind of death, a second tragedy. 

I’m a creature of habit, a lover of routine. I never realized how much of that routine was shaped by Calvin, how often my thoughts went to him. I still find myself looking for him in his usual spots—the corner of the rug in the living room, the most strategic spot under the kitchen table, the middle of the backyard where the sun hits just right. For fourteen years (twenty if you count our first dog, which I do) I’ve lived my life by a dog’s rhythm, a harmony we wrote together. Now, it’s so quiet I could cry. And I do, often. 

There’s no point to this story, no lesson to share. I can’t turn this into a tidy metaphor for writing or art or creativity. Death is terrible and awful, the ultimate betrayal. My only comfort is remembering how much we loved him, and feeling grateful for the years our lives overlapped.

Grief is a hole, but love is a ladder. Every day, we remember our best boy. Every day, we reach for another rung. 

👋 About Me: I’m Chrissy Hennessey, an enthusiastic snacker and native New Yorker living in coastal North Carolina, where I stayed after earning my MFA. My writing has appeared in a decent number of journals, I’ve received fellowships to some fancy residencies, and I’ve written three novels, all currently unpublished. This newsletter is a passion project I started in 2019 as a way to connect with readers and writers, share my creative journey, and build a community. Thank you for being here!