A Week Today Without My Best Friend
Today, I’m writing this as a way to begin accepting and coming to terms with the loss of my sweet mini schnauzer, Penny… or more affectionately known as Pen-Pen, Pea-Pod, Bubbity, and a few other nicknames by those who loved her most.
She passed peacefully in our backyard on Thursday night (May 14, 2026).
I’m struggling because, on one hand, this shouldn’t have come as a surprise. She was diagnosed with cancer in June of 2024, and we made the difficult decision to move forward with a surgical procedure to reduce the tumor, something the vet told us might extend her life by another 6 to 18 months. So I knew we were living on borrowed time. But the way it happened was nothing like I had imagined or tried to prepare myself for.
Growing up, and even for my wife, saying goodbye to pets usually followed a similar path: old age, gradual decline, and eventually making the incredibly difficult but compassionate decision to ease their suffering. It was always painful, but it felt like the right thing to do. This is what I had been preparing myself for over the last 20 months. With Penny, it was different.
She went about her day last Thursday like nothing was wrong. That night she went outside, and 15 minutes later, I found her lying in the grass. I like to believe I got to her in time, that she knew I was there, that she wasn’t alone. But everything happened so fast, I can’t say for certain. In moments like that, your mind struggles to hold onto what really happened.
It’s only been a week, but I find myself counting each one. Every evening around 7:30, the time she passed, I quietly mark another day without her. What hurts the most is the thought of her memory slowly fading over time. There’s a line in the Fleetwood Mac song “Storms” about “your softness fades away,” but to me, it feels like the opposite. Penny’s sharpness, the vividness of her presence, is what fades, and that’s what scares me. I truly feel like a piece of my heart has been taken, one that can never be replaced.
The smallest things catch me off guard and pull me right back into grief. She was part of my life for nearly 14 years. We got her just three days after our wedding, so my entire daily routine was built around her. Now, everything feels quiet and empty.
If you know mini schnauzers, you know how deeply they bond with “their person.” Penny chose me. I was her human. Especially over the last two years, she was my shadow, always by my side. And I loved that more than I can put into words. She was a family dog, absolutely. My wife and kids loved her, and she loved them. But she was mine in a way that’s hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it. Losing her has hit me differently, and in ways I’m still trying to understand.
Yesterday, something happened that brought me a small sense of comfort. I was sitting on the front porch, trying to change up my routine a bit, when a black and blue butterfly flew right up to me and landed on the back of my thigh. I honestly thought I imagined it. But when I stood up, it was still there, just resting on me for a good 20–30 seconds before flying away. I tried to get a picture, but it left just before I could. I want to believe that was Penny. Or at least a sign letting me know she’s okay, and that it’s okay for me to be okay.
I wanted to share my story after reading so many others about grief, understanding, and acceptance from people who have loved and lost their pets. Those stories have helped me more than I can put into words during these early days. They’ve reminded me that I’m not alone, and that there are so many others who have gone through this, and many who are going through it right now. I miss you so, so much, my Penny.