Living Without a Dog for the First Time in 35 Years

Seven months ago, we lost our dog.

Even typing that still feels strange. He was woven into every corner of our days. The click of nails on the floor. The rhythm of morning walks. The quiet weight beside me in the evening. When he died, the house did not just feel empty. It felt wrong. Too tidy. Too quiet. Like it was waiting for something.

For the first time in 35 years, I was living without a dog. Thirty five years. That is longer than many marriages.

After he passed, I made a promise to my husband. One full year with no dog. One year to travel freely. One year to wake up and decide on a whim to go somewhere without arranging pet care. One year to remember who we are as just us.

That year is up June 10th, 2026. But who is counting. Okay. I am counting.

Living without a dog has been both lighter and heavier than I expected. Lighter because we have traveled more. We have escaped winter. We have lingered in places without watching the clock for feeding time or worrying about a dog sitter. There is a freedom to it. A looseness.

Heavier because there is a quiet that still catches me off guard. No leash hanging by the door. No warm body pressed against my leg. No reason to go outside in the rain other than my own good sense.

I have had a dog continuously for most of my adult life. Dogs have shaped my schedule, my career, my friendships, even my identity. Being without one feels like standing in a familiar room after all the furniture has been moved out.