There are dogs everywhere in California. In San Diego, specifically in my sister's Ocean Beach neighborhood, there seems to be a dog for at least every other human being. It's kind of crazy. Chihuahuas take on boxers at the farmer's market. Dogs are on(and occasionally off) leash in just about every store. There are Frosty Paws (tm) in a freezer case at the ice cream shop so they can have their treat while the humans do.

It was fun to see, but it was also difficult, although I had no idea it would be. I was all, bring on the dogs! And then I met California, whose canine population overwhelmed my resolve. I've written previously about the death of my Boston Terrier, Punkinhead, this March, and how difficult it was for me and for my family. it still is. I picked him out of an Ohio kitchen litter at five weeks of age, took him home to an inappropriately small graduate school apartment, and there we were, staring at each other, as all three pounds of him stood in a dinner plate and chased kibble in a circle.

Five years later, long after he'd taken up residence as the most important male creature to ever grace my life, we moved home to Maryland. There my parents took us all (I'd acquired another rescue Boston, a little girl who was ten by then) into the house and under their wing. He never left their house. They helped me nurse him through the living hell of canine epilepsy. My mother made him turkey and rice for the colitis (the Bostons, they can be a bit fragile.) He got Halloween treats and a Christmas stocking. He became my father's best friend and constant companion. The house revolved around him, gladly, enthusiastically.

And then, at the end of two months of increasingly difficult seizures this late winter, he had the nerve to die just as it turned to spring around here, leaving us high and dry and dogless, with no (truly no, please don't tell us it's silly, it just is) interest in replacing him, not now, maybe not ever.

The other day at the farmer's market in Ocean Beach, my sister pointed out a Boston Terrier about his size, with a different face but the same sweet demeanor. She said to look, that he was cute, and I turned, expecting to want to go over and pet him. To my horror, I started to cry on the street and I had to look away. I kept walking.

"I'm not ready to see one in 3-D, I'm afraid," I said, thankful for sunglasses and an understanding sibling who didn't balk at talking to the dog on the phone, because he was so in love with her that he knew her voice and the sound of one of  us saying her name, who has his photo framed on her office shelf beside the rest of the family and as the wallpaper on her phone.

Too soon, we decided. Too soon for Dog Beach. Too soon to kneel down and bond with this specific representation of the breed, this altogether lovely dog who was still not my dog.

Because my parents help me out a lot with the logistics of my life and I do the same for them, they picked me up the other night at the airport fresh from my California odyssey. My mother mentioned how she'd been home all day cleaning the house, off from work, and thought how it would have been nice to have a dog underfoot again. I can't have a dog in the house I'm living in, so that's my excuse.

"I got a dog. Right there," my father said, pointing to the snapshot of Punkin on his visor, that in the dark I hadn't known was there.  

Still our only dog. Still too soon, I guess. It still crosses my mind to stop by the house and let him out, until I remember it's  unnecessary. I can't watch the videos of him yet without tears. I am so 

Mata H. wrote a great post last week about friends grieving for their dog who recently died, inspiring my own thoughts on the matter. I write about pets here every other week, a task that has admittedly been more difficult in the months since I lost my own. I'm not even a pet person anymore. I don't have one. But reading Mata's post and the beautiful and supportive comments reminded me of the same ones that meant a lot to me when my dog died. Only two people condescended, and those people were not my friends. 

It is still worth talking about, still necessary to share - still important to reach out to anyone who might be feel silly about calling in sick to work, as I had to a few times, to tend to a beloved pet. Because the double-edged sword of grief is that in order to experience it, you have to have had something significant to lose. Something mattered to you. Something gave your life the particular shape that each human's takes in the space of a span of days. Most commonly we think of it in terms of losing people who mean a lot to us, and the deep and horrible pain of that is true and real. But when an animal who has shared our home and family time dies, it leaves a hole exactly their size, and the pain can catch you off-guard. It has to be acknowledged. 

Knocking Everywhere's daughter Kelly lost her cat this summer and began her quest to get two new pets with her new puppy, Darcy. 

Commenter MerryMary08 linked to Colleen Mihelich's Peternity blog that includes the practical (urns and services for memorializing pets immediately after death0 and the poetic, including this cat poem from Cleveland Amory:

"Where he is really buried,

and where he is,

and where he always will be,

is in my heart. "

Robin Reynolds lost her Airedale and says that when it comes to pets, it's crazy NOT to grieve.

Those who have lost cats can share their ideas for feline grief forum at Paws and Effect.

SAPPY Pet Loss of San Antonio has a blog for "pet parents" to share stories and remembrances of their lost pets.  And for those who prefer a human voice, the American Veterinary Medical Association has a list of pet loss hotlines, offering listening ears and compassionate advice from people who will never utter the words, "but it's just a dog," who will affirm, as Mata's post said, that it's a loss as real as any other. 

Laurie White writes at LaurieWrites