It was disorienting. My routine fell apart, and I wasn't sure what to do next. Grief does that, it breaks the shape of a day, shatters the familiar architecture of hours. You move to do something by habit...refill the water bowl, check the evening meds, and suddenly you remember: everything has changed. Little stabs of acute grief pierce the ordinary moments, just when the light shifts through the window, just when you reach for something that's no longer there.

Kip came to me through The Real Bark dog rescue. They needed a forever foster home for a dog with a serious condition, someone who understood death and wouldn't turn away from it. That's what hospice chaplains do. We don't look away. We lean in.

Kip was small, a little gentleman of fierce opinion and quiet dignity. He had liver failure, required medications four times a day, and needed consistency, patience, and a devotion that asked nothing in return. I thought I could do it. What I didn't know was how completely he would reorganize my world.

He settled in quickly, and made the rules. Kip didn't walk on a leash. He preferred his stroller, especially on cold days, bundled in sweaters and blankets like some small monarch surveying his domain. He had strong preferences about treats and would reject offerings with aristocratic disdain. His food required careful monitoring. He cared little for most people, but he loved the world beyond our door.

Car rides were his pure joy. So I took him everywhere: meetings, lunch dates, grief groups, visits to the elders at the assisted living facility. Always in his stroller, always curious, present, dignified. He showed people something profound, that you can still savor life even with a terminal diagnosis and a set of wheels. He lived months beyond the timeline they'd given him, each day a small rebellion against prognosis. And I grew to love him with a fierceness that surprised me.

I learned to read the language of him—the tilt of his head, the way he would stare at me in the quiet moments, communicating something beyond words. I knew when his body began to change. His enlarged liver pressed against other organs. Breathing became labored. I knew what that meant. We took one last car ride together, and I held him as he crossed the threshold.

The grief that followed was immense, a weight that settled into my bones. I had taken Kip knowing this would happen—but knowing something and living it are entirely different countries.