The Kind of Love You Don’t Question
I still say my relationship with Mr. Jax was the most stable male relationship I’ve ever had. Loving him was easy. I got him when I was 21, and he was with me through everything. He was there for my college graduation. He gave me strength when I was going through my divorce. He helped ease some of the weight that life inevitably drops on you.
Loving him never felt like work. It felt natural. He was a cute little fluff ball with the best personality, and over time, it became clear he was also hilarious. He had passive aggressive huffs. He would silently judge you when you entered a room. In his prime, he could outrun a squirrel and alert you to anything even remotely suspicious in our surroundings. He was well behaved and never gave me any problems. He just existed alongside me, steady and reliable.
The Ordinary Shape of That Love
Every morning started with a quick walk outside so he could ambulate and poop. With the exception of Michigan winter mornings, it was always a nice way to start the day. Just me and my pup, hearing his little steps on the pavement while everything else was still quiet. He was really good at leading the way, even when he slowed down.
Once we were back inside, I’d make his breakfast. In the beginning, it was simple. As the years went on, mealtime became a series of very specific steps. At first, I could put his food down and hear him eat. Toward the end, I was feeding him because he struggled to eat on his own.
I worried a lot as he lost the ability to do things independently. But it also made me happy to know I was the one taking care of him, that he was getting what he needed. All the things he needed, I was more than willing to do.
The Day Everything Changed
Before it happened, I worried that I was being selfish. That I was keeping him around because I needed him. It didn’t feel humane. I asked my boyfriend what he thought, and he told me there would be a clear sign. That we would know. He wasn’t ready either.
Then there was a day when Jax didn’t eat for 24 hours. That was the sign. We decided it was time to make arrangements to help him transition.
He still looked at us in a way that felt like he was saying, I don’t feel well, but thank you for loving me. It was heartbreaking knowing his time was close. All I wanted was for him to be comfortable. Choosing to let him pass at home felt like the best gift I could give him.
What People Mean When They Say “It Gets Easier”
After Jax crossed the rainbow bridge, things did get easier in theory. There was less laundry. Less cleaning. Less strategic meal prepping. But what people don’t talk about is what suddenly becomes more noticeable.
There was more time, especially in the morning. There was more silence. Even though Jax wasn’t very mobile near the end, his breathing and his passive aggressive huffs made the room feel occupied. Without him, the space felt different.
We had specific plates just for Jax, and we still haven’t cleared them from the cabinet. We still have a massive amount of blankets. His favorite memory foam mat still lives by my boyfriend’s gaming setup.
We still haven’t brought our coffee table out of storage. We put it away when Jax started to lose his vision. Functionally, bringing back the table would make things easier but neither of us are in a rush to do it.
Things didn’t really get easier. They gave me a clearer understanding of what love looks like.
The Ways They’re Still Here
I have a small shrine for Jax. His ashes are surrounded by crystals, and I still haven’t decided where it should permanently live. Right now it’s near the TV, mostly because I always wanted to see him. Some days that feels comforting. Other days I wonder if keeping him so close is me holding on instead of letting him rest. I don’t know the answer yet.
I think about his face more than I expect to. Not in a dramatic way. Just flashes. A look. An expression. The kind of remembering that shows up without warning.
I’m more sensitive now when our cat acts even slightly off. I notice everything. A pause. A change in behavior. I immediately assume the worst, even when there’s no reason to.
When I meet new dogs, I catch myself searching for him in their eyes. I never find him, but I do recognize the same sweetness. It reminds me that what I loved about him wasn’t unique to him, even though he was.
Sometimes, when I walk across the carpet, I still half expect to feel a warm spot where he used to lay. I never do. But my body hasn’t quite caught up to that yet.
Loving Another Dog, or Not
Is another dog in my near future? Negative, ghostwriter.
Jax was such an exception to his breed, and he was my first dog. I think I would resent a new dog if their behavior wasn’t like his, and that wouldn’t be fair to a dog I don’t even know yet. I don’t judge people who get new pets right away. I understand the urge. It’s just not for me.
I truly believe I’ll know when I’m ready, and when the right companion crosses my path.
What Stayed With Me
Loving Jax taught me the value of spending quality time with someone. I remember our time together fondly, and I miss him every day.
Patience comes easily when you truly love someone.
As a pet owner, it is your responsibility to do everything you can to make sure your pet lives a good life. A lot of what I did for Jax, I wouldn’t always do for myself.
Now that I’m without him and without my parents, I’m trying to do more for myself. It’s not perfect, but I’m trying.
Ending Thought
I didn’t stop loving Jax after he left this world. Loving him changed me in ways I’m still noticing. It taught me how to show up every day, how to be patient without keeping score, how to care for someone even when it required more from me than I thought I had.
That kind of love doesn’t disappear when the relationship ends. It doesn’t need a place to go. It just settles into you. It shows up in the way I pay attention now, in how I worry, in how I care for the people and animals still here.
I don’t feel the need to make sense of it or turn it into something hopeful. Loving him was real. Losing him was real. And the love itself is permanent, even if everything else changes.
It stays. Quietly. Permanently.
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