A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.

He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.

But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”

So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.

And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.

Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.

And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.