I wasn’t ready. I thought we had more time. I didn’t want to say goodbye yet.

Kaya – In Inuit it means strength. Named by my husband, Kaya was a year-old rescue lab mix when he and I were properly introduced. I was familiar with the man/canine package from my previous life. The dog is king and will decide who stays and who goes.

In both lives it was decided I could stay. I would round out the family triangle, adoring and caring for each pooch as if he was mine from the very beginning. At the end, it sure did feel like it.

The end is hard. The end is unavoidable. The end always comes too soon.

Saying goodbye to Kaya last year on this day snuck up on me, like many other sudden reminders that life is always too short. For a dog, even shorter. We were preparing to go away for my 50th birthday, a distraction from my own aging and mortality. We had been noticing the typical “old age” symptoms of an 11+ year old large dog, but we had no idea a tumor had seized his heart – a heart that had melded with ours.

Like many who have lost a beloved pet, we were flattened by shock, guilt, and sorrow. Rationally we understood…emotionally we suffered, together and alone – Kaya was our glue – and then he was gone. Our triangle was no more.

The well-planned trip served as an unplanned escape from the unexpected absence of our unique long-nosed, lanky-legged, floppy-eared, big brown boy, however, we knew the uncomfortable void was waiting for us back home. We arranged to join a pet loss support group upon our return where we virtually met many others left in puddles since their pet loss.

Our animals become part of us and can never be replaced. Yet there was a comfort in knowing there were many dogs waiting to be rescued. There was a comfort in knowing one of them would rescue us.

I’m now on my third life of caring for a dog that I know will inevitably also break our hearts, my heart. But life is a constant cycle of healing and rebuilding. So I will keep building triangles.