This week my dog died. Or at least a dog who was once mine. What do you even call a pet you took care of with your former partner, but had to leave behind because you broke up? Do I even have the right to grieve?
I try to name the fact — first in my head, then out loud — to figure out how I feel about this. I do feel some kind of sadness welling up, but it doesn’t seem to need to erupt. I get transported back in time. The pain of leaving something you love, even if it’s for the best, what is the word for such a thing?
No matter how much I try, I just don’t seem to grasp how to integrate my old self with the person I am today. It seems like the process of changing is always so destructive: I get demolished to my core, before rebuilding step by step. In this sense, when I ponder on memories it never seems like my life, I am merely watching a black and white movie about someone else.
I look at the reel my former partner posted about the death of his best friend, our dog. For 14 years, this little creature brought joy into his life, his death sudden. Without much notice, the last thin lifeline between me and my ex fades away.
Flynn vs. the world 
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