Navigating the Heartache of Losing My Soul Dog Justice and the Grief That Follows
- klimandri0326
- Jul 17
- 11 min read
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 their 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. I knew the moment I met him, 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.
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. When this woman who lived across from my Aunt 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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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. 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.
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. He became my anchor to the world, keeping me from drifting away when everything else felt like too much.
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. No judgment. No expectations. Just warmth and breath and quiet understanding. His head on my chest always felt like a lifeline.
Looking back now, I see it 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.
I was never the kind of kid who asked for much. I took pride in being self-sufficient, 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 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 didn’t last 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 unwavering 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. We lived a very long, wild 15 years together. I wouldn't trade them for the world, but what wouldn't I give to have him live longer with me...
The Moment of Loss
The night before he passed, we were lying on the couch together, and the TV was on in the background, it was playing a gentle fireplace. We listened to the crackling whisper together after the whole house had gone off to bed. I wasn’t really watching, just holding him close and soaking in every breath, every little sound he made. When I noticed how late it was getting, I picked him up and took him outside to use the potty one last time for the night. When I walked back in, the TV was no longer playing the fireplace. Instead, All Dogs Go To Heaven had come on. Out of nowhere. No autoplay, no algorithm. Just that movie...that one...In that moment, I knew the universe was whispering to me, “He’s going to a good place. He’ll be okay.” It was the sign I needed...that I had waited for. Without it, I don't know how I would be right now.
It was the gentlest, most painful kind of sign. A beautiful ache.
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 tearing out of someone’s body, and then realizing it was mine. My soul was crying out for the part of me that had just been taken with him.
In that moment, I wasn’t just losing my dog. I was losing the love of my life. 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 ever since then, all I see are rainbows. So many rainbows. I’ve seen more rainbows in these five weeks since we parted than I’ve seen in my entire life. In the sky, in puddles, in windows, on walks. I know it’s him. I feel it. It’s too consistent, too perfectly timed, not to be him reminding me: I’m still here, Mama. You’re not alone.
Grieving Justice, My Way
Grief is wild and weird. It doesn’t care about timing or logic. For someone like me, who’s made a lifelong habit out of pushing emotions down and powering through, it’s been especially hard. But not feeling your feelings only delays the healing. Trust me. I tried.
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I gave myself a full week with him. A goodbye tour, if you will. We did all his favorite things. Drove to the dog beach. Napped in the sun on the sand. Let the waves kiss our feet and watched 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.
That last week was sacred. It wasn’t about saying goodbye. It was about saying thank you.
Thank you for loving me through every version of myself.
Thank you for holding my heart.
Thank you for saving me.
I made him a cake that day, soft, dog-friendly, and gone in sixty seconds. He devoured it with the kind of joy only dogs somehow know. He got Portillo’s too, my Chicago-born boy. He ate until his belly was full and his tail, which couldn't wag much anymore because of his condition, actually moved.
We even 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, a bright, messy, perfect little imprint of him.
That whole day, he smiled. I saw it on his face. Not just happiness, but peace. And I knew. I knew.
He was tired. He was ready.
And I hated it. I hated it so much. I cry as I'm writing this now. I hated it...
I felt gutted. But I also felt relief. And then I hated myself for feeling relief. It was this wild mix of love and guilt and devastation and surrender. Like holding both heartbreak and gratitude in the same breath.
He gave me everything. And in the end, I had to do the hardest thing: to love him enough to let him go.
Pre-Grieving the Loss of a Pet
Grief is also a personal journey; there is no right or wrong way to experience it. After Justice's passing, I found myself navigating through a whirlwind of emotions. It's only been 6 weeks since he passed, but I've been pre-grieving his loss for much longer.
This pre-grieving phase was filled with a mix of sorrow and anxiety, as I tried to come to terms with the reality that one day, I would have to say goodbye. The anticipation of loss can often be just as painful as the loss itself, creating a sense of emotional turmoil that can be debilitating at times. I didn't know what it was at first; a dear friend explained it to me. I thought I was going crazy.
In the weeks following his death, I had encountered a rollercoaster of feelings, ranging from profound sadness and despair to moments of anger and confusion. Some days, I felt overwhelmed by the weight of my grief, as if it were a physical presence that I carried with me everywhere I went. On other days, I was thankful for the long life we lived and that he would no longer be in pain. One thing I heard often was "enjoy him while he's still here." Of course, I wanted to enjoy him, but pre-grief is real, and painful, and you don't really have much choice in how it hits you. And that is OKAY.
I now find fleeting moments of joy as I recall the happy memories we shared, which momentarily lift the heaviness of my heart. This ebb and flow of emotions is a testament to the complexity of grief; it is not a linear process but rather a winding path filled with unexpected turns. Moreover, the societal expectations surrounding grief often add another layer of difficulty.
There are unspoken rules about how long one should mourn or how one should express their sorrow. However, I have come to understand, personally, that my grief does not adhere to these norms. It is personal and intimate, a reflection of my love for Justice and the impact he had on my life. Each tear I shed and each memory I cherish is a part of my unique journey through this challenging time.
As I continue to navigate this complicated emotional journey, I am learning to honor my feelings, allow myself the space to grieve in my own way. I have found that sharing my thoughts with people who understand the depth of my loss provides a sense of comfort. The support reminds me that I am not alone in this place and that it is perfectly acceptable to express my grief authentically, without fear of judgment or misunderstanding.
Ultimately, this experience has taught me that grief, while incredibly painful, is also a profound expression of love. It is a testament to the bonds we forge with those we hold dear. As I move forward, I hope to carry Justice's memory with me, allowing his spirit to guide me through the days ahead, even as I continue to learn more about the complexities of my grief.
I felt anger, sadness, disbelief, and eventually acceptance. A lot of people will tell you, grief comes in waves. On the hardest days, the weight is unbearable, but small moments of peace find me.
It's essential to acknowledge that pet loss can be misunderstood by others. Research indicates that many people underestimate the emotional impact of losing a pet. Therefore, seeking support from friends, family, or even pet loss hotlines can provide the necessary understanding and validation during this difficult time.
Finding Support and Healing In Memories
Healing after losing Justice hasn’t been a straight line. It’s messy. Some days feel okay, and others knock the wind out of me all over again. But what I’ve learned is that grief needs space. It needs outlets. And it needs to be witnessed, by yourself, and sometimes by others.
One of the first things that helped me feel less alone was finding pet loss support groups online. I started quietly reading posts from people who felt exactly like I did, lost, broken, and unsure how to move forward without their soul dog. I saw my own heartbreak reflected in their words, and suddenly, my grief didn’t feel so strange or dramatic. It felt human.
I also started reading books about pet loss and animal grief. Some were clinical, others more spiritual—but each one gave me permission to feel. To cry. To remember. To not rush the process just because the world keeps spinning.
And then I started writing.
At first, it was just for me. Journals full of memories and late-night thoughts, the things I wish I could still tell him. But over time, something bigger began to take shape. I’m now writing two books in his honor, one for children and one for adults, both built around the legacy he left in my life.
The children’s book is called I’m Not a Bully, inspired by Justice’s gentle spirit and misunderstood breed. It’s a love letter wrapped in a story, one I hope will help kids see past labels and into the heart of every dog (and every person).
The second book is for people like me, those who have loved and lost a soul dog, their first dog they got on their own. It’s raw and real and written from the middle of my own grief. But it’s also full of hope. I want it to be a hand to hold for someone walking through this same kind of heartbreak.
Creating these books has become part of my healing journey. It’s how I keep talking to him. It's how I make sure his story lives on.
I’ve also made a few tangible memorials that help me feel close to him. I put together a photo book, and I make TikTok videos filled with our adventures, beach days, couch naps, silly faces, and quiet mornings. I flip through it often when I miss him.
There’s also a little garden space in our yard now, just for him. I planted flowers that remind me of him and placed his sun trampoline next to it, which reminds me of him. Some days, I sit out there with my coffee and just breathe.
Grief doesn’t go away, but it does change shape. And honoring Justice through words, through photos, through love, that’s what’s helping me carry it.
Moving Forward
Although the ache of Justice's absence will always be part of me, I've learned to carry his spirit with me. The grief may never fully disappear, but over time, it becomes easier to manage. Moving forward does not mean forgetting; it means finding a way to live alongside the memories.
Engaging with new routines, spending time with other animals, and even considering fostering pets can be positive steps. Remember, while your soul dog is irreplaceable, many animals need love and companionship.
Reflections on a Journey of Grief
Losing a beloved pet like Justice, your soul dog or pet, is one of the hardest experiences one can face. The journey of grief is deeply personal, and it is essential to explore the emotions it brings. Acknowledge your feelings, share experiences, and seek support.
The loss of a pet underscores the profound love shared with our furry friends. Although Justice may no longer be physical with me, his spirit echoes in my heart. Grieving reflects the depth of love we have for our pets, making it a journey that many pet owners comprehend all too well. In honoring our pets, we embrace the memories and love they brought into our lives.
Thank you for listening to our story. I hope you stick around, that you read my upcoming books, or participate in the art I create. I'm glad you're here. I want to hear more about the pet you lost. I will listen, my friend.
Katrina
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