Yesterday, I lost Xena.

Forty days earlier, I had lost Zach.

Two absences in such a short time create a strange quiet inside a house. The routines remain — the walks, the bowls, the doors opening and closing — but the life that animated those rituals has shifted. The house feels different, almost hollow in places where there used to be movement.

Zuri is still here. My gentle, playful child. I love her deeply.

But she is searching.

When we go out for walks, she looks back. As if expecting Xena to appear behind us. At night, when we enter the bedroom, she pauses and looks at the place where Xena used to sleep. Dogs understand space and routine far better than we imagine. For Zuri, the world still contains a missing presence she cannot quite explain.

And perhaps I am doing the same.

Xena had a way of loving that was very particular. She needed me around. Even if my partner tried to take her downstairs, she would wait beside me instead — quietly asking that I be the one to take her. When we left the house, she would stand by the door, hopeful that I would take her along.

She had chosen me.

Dogs do that sometimes. They bond with everyone, but they belong to one person. Xena belonged to me in that way. Life, for her, seemed better if I was part of it.

And so the house now holds not just silence, but memories of a constant presence that used to orbit around me.

In the middle of this grief, another thought has been forming in my mind: perhaps I should adopt another dog. A puppy, preferably. A female, if possible. I have always had a special connection with my girls — Chinese horses like Xena and Zoe, and the deep companionship that seems to come with them.

But the thought comes with hesitation.

Would it be unfair to Zuri?

Or perhaps it would help her. A companion. Someone to play with, to share the rhythms of the house.

Yet Zuri is timid, gentle, and sensitive. I would not want another dog to dominate or bully her. I have seen that happen before. Once, another puppy I fostered grew too rough with her, biting and chasing until she began jumping onto the sofa simply to escape him. I do not want that for her again.

But a young dog grows into the household hierarchy rather than trying to control it. A puppy would learn Zuri’s language slowly. She could become the elder sister instead of the one who retreats.

There is, in fact, a dog from Zuri’s own family in Chennai — a girl who has not been adopted even after a year and a half. She is intelligent and deserving of love. Yet part of me still wonders whether bringing an adult dog into the house might be overwhelming for Zuri.

So perhaps patience is the wiser path.

Perhaps I should wait a month or two. Allow the house to settle into its new rhythm. Let Zuri understand that the spaces she searches will remain empty. And then, when the time is right, perhaps a small soul born this year will appear — one that needs a home, one that might grow up within the love that already lives here.

A new dog would not replace Zach and Xena. Like they didn’t replace Zoe, and Diana and Rolfe and Bonzo. 

Nothing replaces bonds like that. Each one was unique in his or her own way. 

Some animals come into our lives and leave behind a particular warmth — a way the house feels, a way love moves through the rooms. If another dog comes, it will simply grow inside the space my past kids helped create.

For now, though, there is just Zuri and me.

And sometimes, when we walk, she still turns her head to look behind us.

As if the pack is not yet complete.