Missing You…Three Days Gone.

Three Days Gone

Three days. That’s all it’s been since Cooper slipped away, but the house feels like it’s been without him for years. It’s too quiet, even with the shuffle of four other corgis filling the space. There’s a Cooper-shaped hole in every corner, a silence where his happy bark should be.

I keep glancing toward his spots—the corner of the couch, the edge of the bed where his warm body used to rest against my leg. Sometimes my mind tricks me, and I find myself calling his name out of habit. He doesn’t answer. Maybe that’s my reminder that even though he isn’t here physically, he’s still with me in my heart. I imagine him now—likely loafed up beside Abby, my first corgi, and maybe even hanging out with my dad, who Cooper adored. That thought brings a bittersweet comfort.

I will never know what it was that took his life. That unknown sits heavy on my chest. But deep down, I know he lived a fulfilled life. Even on the days when I was distracted or worn thin, even when I didn’t feel as loving as I should have, Cooper never doubted that he was cherished.

My corgis are not “just dogs.” I’ve always known I won’t have children of my own. These five—now four—are my kids. They rely on me for everything: their meals, their safety, their happiness. And in return, they give me unconditional love that I don’t have to earn or prove. I spoil them shamelessly and take exceptional care of them because they are my world. They are my family. They are my responsibility, and I gladly carry that weight.

Since Cooper passed, I cry. I cry a lot. Tears come when I speak his name, when I see his favorite toy, when I catch a glimpse of a photo, or when I hear a sound that echoes a memory. Grief has a way of catching you off guard, and I’m letting myself feel every bit of it. I am sad. I am mourning. And in that mourning, I remember.

Grief hides in the smallest things: the missing food bowl, the absence of his loaf-shaped body on the bed, the back door opening without his wiggle bursting through it. Even the air feels heavier, as if the house itself knows something is missing.

But even through the ache, gratitude pours in. Ten years of joy. Ten years of loyalty. Ten years of teaching me that love doesn’t need a tail to wag. Cooper welcomed every new sibling with an open heart and watched over this little family like a quiet guardian.

If you’re reading this, take a moment to think about your pets. What role do they play in your life? Are they your companions, your comfort, your chosen family like mine? The truth is, we are their whole world. We decide how safe, loved, and cared for they feel. Cooper reminded me of that every day, and I’ll honor him by loving the others just as fiercely.

Three days gone, and I know this pain won’t fade quickly. But I also know Cooper’s pawprints are permanent—on my heart, in this home, and in the story of who I am. Rest easy, Coop. You were my boy, my child, my family. And even in the quiet, I’ll always hear you.