Good Grief

Originally sent to subscribers on April 23, 2026.

I'm sitting in bed in a hotel in Hudson, NY. Wiff is journaling at a little writing desk. We're listening to Cyrus Chestnut, sipping Pol Roger, and eating Brillat-Savarin and really good baguette. I couldn't ask for anything more. And yet something is missing. 

Or actually, someone.

I still have the salt stains on my coat from when I carried Bailey to the vet a few months ago. Over ten inches of snow had fallen on New York City the day before, and the sidewalks were wet with briny slush. When I set her down to pee, the long fur that trailed from her front legs—her "mercury boots" as we called them—had gotten wet. And so had my arm when I picked her up and carried her to the vet for the last time.

Earlier, she had been sleeping under the bed—"BB" or "BoTToM BuNK" as she called it when we did her voice. I pulled some chicken bits off of a recently roasted chicken and microwaved them to get the smells going. I knelt down next to the bed and started blowing over the chicken. She woke up and crept halfway out from underneath the bed. I gave her a few bites and gathered her in my arms. I felt like I was betraying her, tempting her from a nice nap with a few delicious morsels of chicken. But I focused on my job: to care for her and to love her, which ultimately included euthanizing her.

It was daunting to know that we'd have to carry her in the elevator, through the lobby, and five blocks to the vet. In the suburbs, you have the luxury of getting into your car in the privacy of your garage and, should you need to pause and cry, you can do it in private. In the city, you can't hide. So we broke it into pieces. We just have to get through the elevator.

The elevator door opened on our floor and Roger, an 8-year-old St. Bernard and his owner, whose name I don't know, were inside. We got on and the doors closed. The owner stuck his hand out to let Bailey sniff. "Old girl. What is she now, 19? Still kicking, huh?" I chuckled. "Yep." I didn't want to ruin his day. We just have to get through the lobby.

We kept it together through the lobby, giving our doormen a wave as we went. I set her down outside for a pee in the snow. I picked her up. We just have to get to the vet. On the way, Lauren snapped a few photos and I'm grateful she did. It was a brief moment of joy in what could have been remembered as a terrible day.

Because it wasn't really. Yes, it was heartbreaking, having to say goodbye to the little critter we cared for and whose licks and cuddles we enjoyed for most of the past 19 years. But now she's also free, no longer suffering the effects of dementia, no longer wandering around the living room at all hours of the night, no longer mistaking the rug for her pee pad.

Right after Bailey passed we placed her leash in the trash can. It seems callous—getting rid of it while her still-warm body still lay on the table, but it was a way of acknowledging that she had left us. It seemed like the start of the separation process, but in many ways that process had begun years earlier.

Bailey used to run around Cannon Beach, Oregon, chasing seagulls she could never catch. She used to walk the whole mile to Central Park, and then bask in the sun while the three of us drank rosé. And, after getting home from the park, she still had enough energy to retrieve and thrash the toy hedgehogs we'd hidden around the apartment—searching for a new one each time we gave the command, "Go get fox!"

But she hadn't really run more than a few yards at a time in years, or walk to Central Park—her batteries not being what they once were. In the past few years the farthest she could go on a walk was to the halal cart at the end of the block where she'd sniff for any street treats the rats hadn't gotten the night before. She'd grown increasingly blind and deaf and suffered from doggy dementia. Even with the pillow barricades we set up in the bedroom every night, we'd still find her "stuck" in the corner or under a chair. By the time she passed away, we had already been losing her for years.

For the first few days, grief came in waves. It started with the nostalgic trips down memory lane, remembering all the cuddles and the morning walks we'd shared and would no longer have. I kept replaying the vet visit. Remembering how much dehydrated chicken she ate as we had our final moments together. How, when we told the vet it was time, it happened so quickly. How one second she was there, and the next she was dozing off. How I held her head in my hands the whole time, stroking her, making sure she knew we were still there until she wasn't. How the vet quietly asked if she could listen for a heartbeat. How she quietly said, "Bailey's passed."

After a week or two, I felt guilty, wondering whether we euthanized her too soon. She was still eating, and isn't that how you're supposed to tell when it's time? I told Wiff, and she said she wondered if we waited too long. Bailey was still eating, yes, but only if we lifted her directly in front of her bowl so she could get “plugged in.” She was still drinking water, but she'd get seizures from drinking too much at once.

Grief is weird like that. One minute it guilts you for acting too soon; the next, for letting her suffer too long. Talking to Wiff reminded me that the most important thing wasn't the timing—the is no perfect time—but that she was loved. It also helped me see that grief couldn't become a place to live. After a while you look at yourself in the mirror, with puffy eyes and a runny nose, and think, Is this how I want to live? Tighten up, man!

Grief, for me, is less a dramatic feeling than a slow education in absence. It teaches you that love doesn't disappear when the beloved dies. It lingers on in memories, in routines, in the little domestic accommodations your life no longer requires, but that your body still remembers. For instance, I just ate a really good piece of that baguette. Normally, I'd have saved a few chunks for Bailey, but now I don't have to share. Even after a few months, often when Wiff or I walk through our living room we'll think I should put down a pee pad. When I fry ground beef for tacos, I used to reserve some for her before adding the taco seasoning. Now? I've gained nine pounds. These little reflexes are how she still shows up: not as a Ghost Pom, but as muscle memory. 

Maybe that's why I haven't cleaned the coat.

I'm sure it'll get cleaned eventually, but I'm not in a rush. I'm still not ready to wash away the proof that I carried her, or the proof that she was here.