They tell you not to cry,
they say he’s just a dog, not a human
they tell you it will pass,
that love like this is small,
that grief will fade.

But they don’t know.

They don’t know how many times
you looked into his eyes
and found the truth of yourself.
They don’t know how many nights
it was you and him against the dark,
his breath steady,
his silence louder than words.

They don’t know
he was the one who never judged,
the one who stayed when the world left,
the one whose moan in the night
shook you with fear
and love.

They don’t know
how often he curled beside you,
how his fur grew whiter
as time stole its way in.
They don’t know the weight of your arms
when you held him sick,
when you held him close,
when you held him last.

They don’t know
how he trusted you,
every moment of his life—
even at the end.
They don’t know
that you were enough for him,
always, only you.

And they will never know
that to cry for a dog
is to cry the purest tears,
the noblest grief,
the truest love.

For they don’t know
what you felt
when your hand caressed his face,
and he slipped away,
still yours,
forever.