Author: Harpreet Chhachhia

I have often spoken about death with what I believed was realism.

When I spoke about Zach and Xena’s imminent passing this year, I believed I was simply acknowledging reality. The doctors had already told us in November that their time was short — a matter of months. I carried that knowledge quietly within me, almost like a preparation.

Somewhere inside, I even suspected that Zach would go first. And he did, in January.

What I did not anticipate was the violence of the pain that followed.

We tell ourselves that knowing something in advance will soften the blow. That if we prepare, if we brace ourselves, the fall will not hurt as much. But grief does not care for preparation. It arrives with its own force.

It takes the wind out of your sails.

I can literally feel my heart break.

I have spoken about death before in other contexts too — even about my mother. I know, with the clarity that comes from loving someone deeply, that one day she too will go. Death is the most certain event in every life. And yet, when that day arrives, I know it will devastate me in ways I cannot fully imagine today.

There is something strange about how I experience death. I often sense its approach. I can feel when the end is near. But when it finally happens, it still shatters me.

Knowing does not protect the heart.

Psychiatrist Elisabeth Kübler-Ross famously described grief through what are now known as the five stages: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. They are often spoken of as if they are steps on a staircase — neat, sequential, and orderly.

But grief is rarely so obedient.

These stages are not destinations we visit once and leave behind. They are currents that move through us, sometimes overlapping, sometimes returning when we least expect them.

Denial is the mind’s first shield. It is the quiet disbelief that whispers, This cannot be real. Even when we know someone is dying, a part of us still behaves as though the moment will somehow not arrive. Denial protects us from the full force of the loss all at once. I have never gone through this stage though. (This could be the denial.)

Anger follows close behind. It may be directed at fate, at doctors, at the universe, at God, or even at the one who left us. It is the protest of the heart — the refusal to accept that something so loved could be taken away. Yes, I’ve felt this, mostly at myself. 

Bargaining is grief’s attempt to negotiate with the inevitable. If only I had done this. If only we had caught it sooner. What if I had tried one more treatment? These thoughts are not rational, but they arise from love’s desperate wish to undo what cannot be undone. Our family keeps doing this. My sister wants to meet the doctors. To find out what happened exactly. 

Depression is perhaps the stage most people recognise. It is the heavy stillness that follows the storm. The absence where presence once lived. It is the quiet realisation that the loss is real and permanent. I am feeling this keenly. 

And finally there is acceptance — not happiness, not relief, but a form of peace. Acceptance is the moment when grief finds a place to sit within us. The loss remains, but it no longer consumes every breath.

Yet even Kübler-Ross herself later clarified that these stages were never meant to be rigid or universal. Grief does not follow a timetable.

It moves like weather.

I know this because I have lived through grief before.

Years ago, I lost Zoe. At the time, the loss felt unbearable. I dreaded it even before it happened, and when it did, it devastated me in ways I thought I might never recover from.

But grief changes shape over time.

Thirteen years later, the pain is still there, but it has folded itself neatly into the corners of my memory. It no longer overwhelms my days. Sometimes I cry when I think of her, but those tears carry the quiet weight of accumulated years rather than the sharp edge of fresh loss.

Grief does not disappear.

It simply learns where to live.

These recent heartbreaks are different because they are new.

They arrive like waves crashing against my being.

There are moments when the grief rises suddenly, and I feel as though I cannot breathe. As though the air itself has thickened around me.

But I know something else too.

These waves will pass.

They always do.

Not because the love fades, but because the human heart slowly learns to carry its losses without collapsing beneath them.

And yet, even knowing that the pain will soften one day, I do not wish to rush through this anguish.

Because this grief has meaning.

It is the measure of my love for them — for all my children who came into my life with wagging tails, trusting eyes, and hearts that knew nothing but devotion.

I cannot say they would want me to suffer.

But I can say this: in feeling this pain, I understand the depth of how much I loved them.

And perhaps that is the quiet truth grief leaves behind.

Love does not end with death.

It simply changes its form.

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.