A lot of people have been asking how CiCi is. She’s okay, I think. She’s better than me right now… She knows now that Chooch isn’t coming back. At first she searched the entire house for him. I’m glad that the staff at VEG Vet gr—
A lot of people have been asking how CiCi is. She’s okay, I think. Maybe even better than I am right now, at least on the outside. But I see her sadness in quieter moments—the way she lies by the door a little longer than usual, or how she turns her head at the sound of a familiar jingle that never comes anymore. CiCi knows now that Chooch isn’t coming back.
At first, it broke my heart to watch her search for him. She walked from room to room, sniffing at corners and stopping to look over her shoulder, almost like she was expecting him to jump out and surprise her. That first night without him, she curled up in his usual spot. It’s like she was trying to find comfort in his scent, in the last pieces of him that still lingered in the air.
I didn’t know how to help her, not really. I was barely holding it together myself. Chooch was more than just a pet—he was family. Losing him left a hole I wasn’t prepared for, and trying to keep it together for CiCi was both grounding and devastating. She needed me, and I needed to believe she was okay. Watching her adapt has been painful but oddly comforting. There’s a resilience in animals that I wish I could borrow for myself.
I’m incredibly thankful for the staff at VEG Vet Group. They were kind, compassionate, and honest during one of the hardest days of my life. They gave Chooch the gentlest passing, and they gave me the space to fall apart without judgment. They even gave CiCi a moment to say goodbye. I think that helped more than I realized at the time. She sniffed him, sat beside him for a moment, and then slowly walked away. No barking, no whining—just silence. A deep, heartbreaking understanding.
In the days since, CiCi has begun to settle into a new rhythm. She’s eating again, sleeping a little better, and even playing now and then. She still glances at the door sometimes, but not as often. I catch her carrying around one of Chooch’s toys, not chewing it, just holding it. It’s like she’s holding on to him in her own way.
Grief looks different for everyone. For CiCi, it’s quiet and subtle. For me, it’s loud and aching. But somehow, in this strange space between loss and healing, we’re figuring it out together. She reminds me to keep going, to eat, to step outside, to be present. And I like to think I’m helping her too, by just being here.
So, to those who’ve asked: CiCi is okay. Not the same, but okay. We both miss Chooch more than words can say. But we’re finding our way forward, one day at a time.
