Some people roll their eyes at the little things we do for our pets. Picking up toys scattered around the house, folding their blankets just right, or sweeping up the endless trails of fur. But for me, those small chores were part of a bigger love — a routine I cherished more than I ever realized. Now, as I walk through the quiet house, I’d give anything just to pick up after him one more time.
He had a way of making a mess feel like magic. Whether it was muddy paw prints on the floor after a rainy day or chewed-up bits of his favorite stuffed animal strewn across the living room, it always made me smile. His chaos was comforting. His presence was loud, joyful, and constant. I used to sigh when I saw his trail, but now that trail is gone… and the silence it left behind is deafening.
It’s strange how grief lives in the ordinary. I miss the click of his nails on the floor, the way he’d knock over his food bowl just to make a point, or how he’d drag his blanket across the room to nap right by my side. I miss the things I once thought were chores — because they meant he was here.
I catch myself instinctively bending down to scoop a toy that isn’t there, or glancing at his bed to see if he’s still curled up. Old habits formed in love, still lingering even after he’s gone.
I wish I could pick up after him forever. I really do. Because picking up after him meant he was still with me — still making memories, still living his best life right beside mine. Now, I’m left with memories and a heart that aches for one more muddy mess, one more toy to return to the basket, one more moment of his joyful, messy presence.
Forever wouldn’t have been long enough.
