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Not long ago I was caught off guard when I grabbed Quinn’s harness and accompanied her to the park. We encountered a pleasant interruption when an acquaintance and her older dog stopped us for a meet and greet. There were some bouncy hellos, a lot of tail wagging, and a few nose rubs, but all that ceased when I told her, “Stop that.”

Actually, as you might surmise, that’s not completely true. Both dog owners had tight schedules that did not allow for such frisky behavior, but canine etiquette demanded the flirty closeness and an exchange of tongue lather between our bosses. Stopping such intimacy would have been impossible and anti-Disney.

I was not embarrassed by their open display of affection, but I continued my journey a little baffled that morning. It was not a confusion caused by leashes tied into the Gordian Knot by circling leaps and bounds. I was not dizzy from watching my ankles tethered by zoomies. But, I was definitely perplexed by a parting comment.

For whatever reason, an omen I was not aware of or a fear I couldn’t relate to, the lady quietly said, “I think it would be harder for me to lose my dog than to lose a person.”

Without hesitation, I smiled and awkwardly - but honestly - responded, “I’m not sure that would be true for me,” as we parted ways. Yet each step thereafter grew more difficult. Should I have said anything? Did she have bad news from the vet? How could anyone think that? Why do my feelings have be right? Losing friend or losing family or pet is not a win-win situation. It was not a catalyst for debate. Maybe I should have just listened.

Dog scenes from the past whirled in my head. Lassie, Rin Tin Tin, and Yukon King appeared and disappeared from the screen in my head. When I met Julie her dog Kitty was an acrobatic hunter. That small creature would lie on its back and wait for a bird to swoop low to aggravate her. When one got near, she would arch and leap from that position to catch her prey. I miss those movie mutts and that little mongrel, but I don’t grieve for them.

My first dog was a smoking-stump surprise. As we left Grandpa’s house one weekend, my dad saw a pair of eyes peering out of the center of a stump that had been smoldering for a while. He stopped the car and retrieved a tiny black and white puppy that had been warming herself. Lucky was a joyful hitchhiker who opted to stay.

I suppose every member of my family loved Lucky differently. She was the epitome of “man’s best friend.” If she wagged, we followed. When she stopped, hands reached out. Where she walked, the earth was blessed with a lasting memory . And, she was a good neighbor. “Mi casa es michi casa” might have been her motto. That may be a poor translation, but she always welcomed cats as well as people at her doghouse.

So, do I remember Lucky to this day? Yes, but I don’t feel her passing as much as I do the deaths of friends and family. I don’t miss her as much as I do my daughter April who died twenty-eight years ago and yesterday. Yet, none of my losses gives me the right to be the monarch of grief. Understanding death demands a lifetime of assessment and study and empathy for me.

In respect to dogs, I’m a Hondo kind of guy. Remember John Wayne in that movie? His dog was Sam (possibly a descendant of Lassie). Hondo, who was same character the Duke played in every movie, did not baby his companion. Sam was expected to take care of his own needs. His survival depended on it. Right or wrong, I generally treat my pets a lot like that.

As a means of debriefing, I mentioned the park comment to a few friends. I was not looking for a “how dare someone (the lady)” or a “how dare you (meaning me)” feel this way or that. The emotion expressed during that exchange was sincere. It seemed to have echoed from her heart. I just needed someone to throw some light on her perspective, and Susan Finke did just that when she shared a brief video, “Why Losing Your Dog Breaks You More Than Any Human Death,” a Reel by Selftrue. Journey.

Dating back at least eight years were also a number of on-line articles that, if not as poetic, were just as emphatic that losing a dog can be as intense and painful as losing a person. Some added that the experience could be even harsher. Most shared that this is due to the closeness and daily companionship that many people share with their dogs. I would suspect that these relationships and the potential grief were intensified by COVID isolation.

Is all this important? It is for me. I don’t have to agree or disagree, but I do need to be respectful of the feelings of others. I ought to be a better listener. I should remind myself again and again that we all grieve differently.

And, when I go on walks with Quinn, Julie’s white Pomsky and my personal trainer, I would be better off if I just relax, enjoy the scenery, and clear my head and heart. I don’t need to guilt trip myself for thinking I’m with the most popular, blue-eyed pooch in the park. After all, I’m an unbiased dog liker, and my dog is a persistent, lovable people licker.