Navigating the Heartache of Losing My Soul Dog Justice and the Grief That Follows

Losing a pet can truly feel like losing a part of yourself, even more so when that pet is your soul animal. For many, the bond shared with your furry friend is life-changing, making the loss even more incredibly painful. Losing my dog, Justice (A.K.A. Mr. Moo), was one of the hardest experiences of my life. He was a part of my soul. Was there for me in all the important moments in my life. I knew from the instant I laid eyes on him that he was a part of me. I write this in the hope that sharing my experience can help others navigate the long road of pet loss and the deep grief that follows. Thank you for being here, my friends. Let's do this together. <3

My dog, named Justice

Our Story

The bond between a person and their dog is hard to explain to someone who hasn’t lived it. For most of us, myself included, they’re not “just pets.” They’re like our children. Our family. Our home.

Justice was all of that and more. He was my soul dog. The one, in every sense of the word.

I found him in March of 2010. My aunt lived around the corner from our house, and across the street, this woman would foster all kinds of animals. I was 19 years old, just weeks away from turning 20, and completely lost. My life at the time felt like open water. I was adrift at sea in a storm I couldn’t see my way out of, barely keeping my head above the waves. One day, this woman brought over a laundry basket full of puppies. Little did I know that in that basket, I'd find something that changed my life completely.

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Born March 5th, 2010

He fit in the palm of my hand. A tiny ball of mischief with big golden-brown eyes and a personality far too big for his little body (which he grew into). The second I held him, something in me clicked. It was like I’d finally found solid ground, something real to hold onto. He was my home. The one I had searched for because the one I lived in felt broken, and like I never belonged in it.

Our connection was immediate. He was stubborn and wild, impulsive in all the ways I was back then. But unlike everything else in my world at the time, he didn’t let go. He stayed. Through the chaos and heartbreak, the growing pains and quiet battles, he remained this steady, unwavering presence in my chaotic life. He became my anchor to the world, keeping me from drifting away when everything else felt like too much. Later on, in my adult life, I learned that he was the unconditional love I freely gave to everyone around me, but never seemed to receive in kind.

He had this way of sensing when I was unraveling. On the nights when the weight got too heavy, when I couldn’t find words for what I was feeling, Justice would curl up beside me and just exist. He was my constant. His head on my chest always felt like a lifeline.

Looking back now, I see it so clearly... I may have rescued him, but in every way that mattered, he saved me. This unconditional love and companionship formed the foundation of our relationship, making his loss feel like an insurmountable void.

20-year-old me and 3-month-old Justice

I was never the kind of kid who asked for much. I took pride in being self-sufficient even at a young age, even when I shouldn’t have had to be. But when I found Justice, everything changed. I couldn’t imagine my life without him. I needed him.

At the time, I was still living with my mom and stepdad. And even though I tried not to ask for anything, I begged them to let me keep him. I went over to that lady's house every day to help take care of him, doing whatever it took to prove I was serious. He was already my everything.

Eventually, after enough promises and pleading, they said yes. But peace never lasted long in that house. My stepdad and I fought constantly. Control was his language. Taking away my choices was how he kept power over me. And one night, after another fight where he thought he could bend me back into submission, he told me I was no longer welcome there. He thought that threat would make me fall in line.

But instead, I left. I packed what I could, held onto Justice, and walked out without a plan... just the decision that I wasn’t going to live that way anymore.

Justice came with me, without question. Just like he always had. We didn’t have much, but we had each other, and somehow, that was enough. That moment became a turning point in my life. The day I chose freedom. The day I chose us.

Our Life Together

Fifteen years. Long, wild, full ones. I wouldn't trade a single day, and yet... what I wouldn't give for just a little more time with him.

When Justice came into my life, I was barely keeping myself together and working three part-time jobs—a community college dropout, just floating, without a plan or a direction, trying to figure out what came next. I'd started looking for apartments, but if you know anything about renting with a pitbull, you know how fast doors close on you. I was running out of options.

Then my boyfriend, now my husband of fifteen years, convinced Justice and me to come live with him. He knew I would do anything for that dog. And he was right. Justice was a handful. Half Shar Pei, full of energy, full of needs: allergies, training, patience, and more patience. I was a teenager with no idea what I was doing, but I showed up for him anyway. And somewhere in that showing up, I found my way back to myself. He walked me through some of the roughest stretches of my depression and anxiety.

Cracked me open a little. Made it easier to let people in.

So when my boyfriend got down on one knee, saying yes was as easy as taking a breath.

After we married and moved into our first home, my husband nudged me back toward college. Justice was there for every late-night study session, curled up nearby, steady and warm. He was there when I graduated. When we had to move back in with my in-laws after a major accident took my husband out of work for a year. When I landed my first real job out of college.

I made myself a promise somewhere in all of that: I would build a house with a big backyard for Justice to run in. We built that house. Made it a home. Started a family. And he fell completely in love with my daughters. He got me through postpartum and was there next to me through it all. He never stopped being my baby, even as his hair turned white and I gained a few wrinkles. We lived such a full life together. So much adventure. So much love.

My daughters loved him too

The Moment of Loss

Fifteen beautiful years, and then I blinked. Somehow, somewhere in the in-between, my boy had gotten old. He was losing weight. Something was just... off. I took him from vet to vet looking for answers, looking for a plan, and kept walking away with nothing. The message was always some version of the same thing: he's lived a good life, he's at the top of his breed's age range, you should be grateful. But I wasn't grateful. I was desperate. I wanted my heart, the one walking around outside my body on four legs, to keep living.

I finally found a vet who actually listened to me. A diet change, a few medications, and he gave me two more years. Two more years, I would not trade for anything. But then his back legs started to go. I put him in some wheels when he got too tired, so he wouldn't miss out on any adventures, and carried him when he couldn't get far. But then, in March of 2025, she told me he had stage 2 CKD and only weeks left to live.

Senior dog on wheels

I lost my mind that day. I could not comprehend what she was saying.

But then the sun came out. Literally and figuratively. He got some of his spark back, and I decided to fight for him one more time. I made my husband and our vet promise me something: if they believed he was done, if they truly thought it was time, they had to tell me. They had to make me stop.

So I made his food from scratch. I tracked everything. And somehow, I managed to stabilize his CKD.

But weeks kept passing, and it became clear there was more happening than the kidneys. His mind was going rapidly. His legs, too. He was still losing weight, no matter how much he ate.

I had to make the call. For him.

I had been grieving for years already, honestly. Anticipatory grief is real, and it is exhausting, and it is lonely in a way that is hard to explain to people who haven't loved an animal the way I loved Justice. But something someone said in one of my pet groups had stayed with me, quiet and steady, waiting for when I needed it most. They said that he would keep pushing himself past his limit for me. That he would endure more than he should because he loved me and didn't know how to stop. And that the hardest, most loving thing I could do was make the choice he couldn't make for himself.

I had to take his pain, even if it felt like ripping my heart from my chest.

I also learned that choosing sooner, before it becomes a crisis, before it becomes an emergency, is a mercy. For them. So I made the decision to do it at home. To say goodbye on our terms, in a place that was familiar and warm and safe. In the space where he had lived and been loved.

We gave him a bucket list week.

All his favorite things, one after another. The whipped cream cups from the ice cream shop we had been visiting every summer since he was a puppy. Beach days. Napped in the sun on the sand. Let the waves kiss our feet and watch the sky change colors. He rode in his little trailer on neighborhood walks, tongue out, saying hello to our friends like a tiny king. We ate his favorite foods: watermelon, strawberries, bell peppers, and French fries, of course. We curled up in all his favorite spots. I let him lead the way, and I just followed, soaking in every moment, every blink, every breath.

It was a beautiful week. It was also one of the hardest of my life.

Our beach day bucket list

But nobody tells you about the phone call. The one where you actually schedule it. Where you give them a date and a time and make it real. That phone call nearly broke me. It felt like a betrayal. Like giving up on him. And no matter how much I knew, intellectually, that I was doing the right thing, I hated myself for making it. I almost canceled it.

But the night before he passed, we were lying on the couch together. The TV was on in the background, a gentle fireplace, just the soft crackling of it filling the quiet after the whole house had gone to bed. I wasn't really watching. I was just holding him close, soaking in every breath, every small sound he made, trying to memorize all of it.

When I noticed how late it had gotten, I picked him up and took him outside one last time for the night. When I walked back in, the fireplace was gone. The channel had changed on its own, and there on the screen, out of nowhere, was All Dogs Go To Heaven.

Just that movie. That one.

I stood there and felt the universe whisper to me. He's going to a good place. He'll be okay. It was his way of telling me I was making the right choice. The sign I had been waiting for.

Without that moment, I don't know where I would be right now.

saying goodbye as a family

The day I lost Justice is forever etched into my soul. It wasn’t just a goodbye; it felt like the world tilted off its axis. Like, part of me was physically torn away. He passed in my arms, after fighting so bravely through illness and age, and when the moment came… I shattered.

I remember the exact second they told me he was gone. I screamed. A sound so guttural, so primal, it echoed through the room like a tidal wave, or maybe a tsunami. At first, I didn’t even realize it was me; I just remember this scream loud and sad, and then realized it was mine. My soul was crying out for the part of me that had just been taken with him.

I lost the love of my life that day. The one who had kept me steady through everything. My safe place. It was the worst pain I'd ever felt.

The morning after he passed, it stormed the entire day. A reflection of how I felt inside. When it finally stopped, I stepped outside, and a massive rainbow stretched across the sky over our house. Full, vibrant, unmistakable. And for months after, all I saw were rainbows. So many rainbows. I’ve seen more rainbows in those five weeks since we parted than I’ve seen in my entire life. In the sky, in puddles, in windows, on walks. I knew it was him. I felt it. It was too consistent, too perfectly timed, not to be him reminding me: I’m still here, Mama. You’re not alone.

the day after

Grieving Justice, My Way

Grief is wild and weird. It doesn't care about timing or logic. For someone like me, who has made a lifelong habit of pushing emotions down and powering through, it has been especially hard. But not feeling your feelings only delays the healing. Trust me. I tried.

I made him a cake that day. Soft, dog-friendly, gone in sixty seconds. He devoured it with the kind of joy only dogs somehow know how to have. He got Portillo's too, my Chicago-born boy. He ate until his belly was full, and his tail, which could barely wag anymore because of his condition, actually moved.

We made a painting together. I smeared peanut butter on a Ziploc bag and placed it over a canvas with paint underneath. He licked the masterpiece into existence. It hangs over our TV now. Bright, messy, perfect. A little imprint of him that will never come down.

I wrote two letters. One to whoever would greet him on the other side, asking them to love my boy. To watch over him. To have his favorite toys and bones ready, the best sun spots, and the best places to run. And one to him. Telling him thank you. Thank you for loving me through every version of myself. Thank you for holding my heart. Thank you for saving me.

I cut a section of my hair and tucked it alongside a piece of his favorite blanket to take with him.

That whole day, he smiled. I saw it on his face. Peace. And I knew. He was tired. He was ready.

And I hated it. I hated it so much. I'm crying as I write this. I hated it.

But I also felt relief. And then I hated myself for feeling relief. It was this wild, gutting mix of love and guilt and devastation and surrender. Holding both heartbreak and gratitude in the same breath, somehow, at the same time.

He gave me everything. And in the end, the most loving thing I could do was let him go.

Pre-Grieving the Loss of a Pet

Grief is personal. There is no right way to do it, no correct order, no acceptable timeline. And I want anyone reading this who is in it right now to know: whatever you are feeling is valid.

It has only been six weeks since Justice passed, but I had been grieving him much longer than that. There is a name for it: anticipatory grief. I didn't know that at the time. I thought I was losing my mind. A dear friend gently explained it to me, and something in me exhaled. Pre-grief is real. It is sorrow and anxiety braided together, the weight of a loss that hasn't happened yet but that you can already feel coming. And it is just as painful as the loss itself, sometimes more, because you are carrying it alone and still trying to show up for the life happening around you.

People would tell me to enjoy him while he was still here. And of course I wanted to. But pre-grief doesn't ask your permission. It just takes over. And that is okay.

In the weeks since he passed, I have felt everything. Sadness, despair, anger, confusion, gratitude, guilt, relief, and then guilt again for feeling the relief. Grief comes in waves. Some days, the weight is unbearable. Other days, a memory will surface, and it lifts something in me, just for a moment. That ebb and flow is just what love looks like after loss.

There are unspoken rules about how long you are allowed to mourn, how openly you are allowed to express it, especially when it is a pet. People who haven't loved an animal the way you loved yours may not understand the depth of what you are carrying. Research backs this up: pet loss is consistently underestimated by others, even well-meaning ones. So if you are not finding understanding in the people around you, please seek it out somewhere else.

Pet loss support groups, hotlines, and online communities. There are people out there who will get it. The ones that don't aren't for you. You should not have to shrink your grief to make others comfortable.

What I know now is that grief is not a problem to solve. It is not something to push through or power past. It is love with nowhere left to go. And it deserves to be honored, in your own time, in your own way, without apology.

A walk with Mr. Moo in the park

Finding Support and Healing In Memories

Healing after losing Justice hasn't been a straight line. It's messy. Some days feel okay. Others knock the wind out of me all over again.

What I've learned is that grief needs space. It needs outlets. And it needs to be witnessed, by yourself first, and sometimes by others. One of the first things that helped me feel less alone was finding pet loss support groups online. I started just reading. Posts from people who felt exactly the way I did: lost, broken, unsure how to move forward without their soul dog. I saw my own heartbreak reflected in their words, and something in me settled. My grief didn't feel so strange or so dramatic anymore. It felt human.

I also started reading about pet loss and animal grief. Some books were clinical, others more spiritual, but each one gave me the same quiet permission: to feel. To cry. To remember not to rush the process just because the world keeps moving.

I made videos too. Social media posts full of our greatest hits, the joyful ones, and the hard ones. It was cathartic in a way I didn't expect. And at some point, I stopped caring whether people were tired of seeing it.

At first, it was just for me. Journals full of memories and late-night thoughts, the things I still wished I could tell him. But over time, something larger started to take shape. I'm illustrating a book in his honor, rooted in the legacy he left in my life.

The children's book is called I'm Not a Bully. It was inspired by Justice's wild spirit and his misunderstood breed. It's a love letter wrapped in a story, one I hope will help children see past labels and into the heart of every dog, and every person.

Updates on Pre-Orders

Creating this book has become part of my healing. It's how I keep talking to him. It's how I make sure his story lives on. I've also built some tangible spaces for his memory. A photo book I flip through often when I miss him. Albums filled with our adventures, beach days, couch naps, silly faces, quiet mornings.

And a little garden in our yard, just for him. I planted flowers there, and I painted his trampoline, where he often sunbathed, with the dandelions he loved in the yard. Some days, I sit out on the back porch with my coffee and just remember us together.

Grief doesn't ever go away. But it does change shape. And honoring Justice through words, through photos, through love, that's what's helping me carry it.

my sweet old man

Although the ache of Justice's absence will always be part of me, I am learning to carry his spirit with me. The grief may never fully disappear, but over time, it becomes easier to manage. Moving forward is finding a way to live alongside the memories.

Reflections on a Journey of Grief

Losing a soul dog is one of the hardest things a person can go through. The grief is real, it is deep, and it deserves to be taken seriously, by you most of all. Acknowledge what you are feeling. Share it when you can. Seek out people who understand.

Justice may no longer be here in the physical sense, but his spirit is woven into everything I am and everything I am still becoming. And I think that is worth honoring.

Thank you for being here. Thank you for reading our story. I hope you stay a while, whether that means picking up one of my books or pieces of art, following along with what I create, or simply knowing you have found a safe place to land.

I want to hear about the pet you lost, too. Tell me about them. I'm not going anywhere, and I will listen.

Katrina