Dear _______,

The impending death of a loved one is a solemn time. However fitting, however much a relief for the sufferer, separation feels, for the nonce, too much to bear. You know you will bear it – no suttee here – and that the pain, like the violentest storm, will subside; even so you’re not sure you can cope. All those years together, all that love – and then nothing?

When your loved one is a dog, grief’s calculus gets trickier. To sob uncontrollably for a parent, spouse, child may seem right, even heroic – for a while – though, as Hamlet’s new stepdad (and always uncle) chides him,

To extravagantly mourn a dog may seem not right, excessive, “carrying on.” Your dog, however loved, was, well, “just a dog,” replaceable, unlike humans who (we flatter ourselves) are irreplaceable. Dogs are generic, humans unique – so non-dog-lovers conclude, and dog-lovers, abashed, don’t refute – what’s the use?

But we know better.

I’ve never grieved for a human as searingly as for our dog Paddle when he left us. The rascal was perfect, goddammit, unfailingly playful, funny, fun, and contained – in our memories if not his own – a lava-flow of love. The best of us, he brought out our best, and now he was gone! But what was there to say – or do? Dig a hole? Erect a stone? Share the news? (“Our dog died yesterday.” “Oh, sorry.” Next subject.)

I ache for your loss more keenly now that Henry’s stormed Jane’s and my already joyous marriage. We were fine, better than fine, for the fifteen years before, but puppy Henry, with his convivial, hilarious, affectionate attachment, adds a “dimension,” a depth, like bass fiddles to an orchestra. You may not hear them precisely, but you sense when they are missing.

Dogs, bless them, do not blame you for replacing them after they depart, for they are not self-important. Only humans, among our other follies, seek exclusive devotion. To love again is not to love less, but to honor the experience of love by risking its recurrence. As a latecomer to love (as you know), I extol it with a convert’s zeal. Nothing’s more precious – and one deep love deserves, almost mandates, the next, if we can bear it.

We do not know what dogs know. It’s a mystery that keeps us guessing. Are their soulful gazes, licks and ecstatic greetings tactics to inveigle more treats ? Do they love or only persuade us they love to attain their ends?

We will never know – that is part of their fascination. But we are free to imagine reciprocity in devotion – and so we should. Yes, my dog loves me as I love him – and understands me – and forgives my shortcomings – and trembles at my confusion – and sympathizes with my despair. And this love lights my days as the electric bulb inside my old desk globe used to illuminate the earth. And if I’m wrong in my interpretation of the evidence, so what? It feels grand to be loved – with a love never to be withdrawn – if we do our part.

I’m rambling here, converting your grief into an occasion to blab – an occupational hazard. Yet I know that the hurt of one is the hurt of all if you connect the dots, and that none of us in our sorrow is alone.

May your heart be glad and your soulmate rest in peace.