Navigating Grief: Remembering Hercules and What It Means to Live With Sudden Loss

Recently, we lost our dog, Hercules. I wrote this while sitting in the immediate aftermath, holding space for the grief and sorting through the complex emotions.

Hercules the French Bulldog sitting on my lap, honoring his memory after pet loss — When Hercules and I worked from home in our makeshift office during the early days of the pandemic. Am I small, or is he big?

Hercules: The Dog Who Stole Central Park

When I first met Hercules, he was a year old. His dad and I were still just friends.

I'd never seen a French bulldog, and had no idea he was bigger than average. He grew to almost 40 pounds of pure muscle, when most Frenchies top out at 25 pounds.

I'd also never held a dog before. I grew up with very hygienic parents, so my pet experience was limited to fish and baby chicks we gave back within a week.

To be honest, I wasn't sure I wanted a dog, but Hercules and his dad (now my life partner) came as a package. As we started seeing each other, I unwittingly became a doggy stepmom.

And what a package Hercules was. Wherever we went, people would stop and stare.

"Yo, he walks like a G!" a stranger once called out, noticing his strut despite everything else going on in midtown Manhattan.

Hercules always held his head high on his walks. It never felt like I was walking him — more like he was walking me. If a route didn't interest him, he'd plant himself in the middle of the street, completely immovable. I learned to wait while hundreds of tourists adjusted themselves around him.

On the rare mornings when it was my turn to walk him to Central Park, he’d race a few years ahead, sniffing out the exact hill where he met his friends every day. From afar, I'd hear people I'd never met call out, "Is that Hercules? Everyone, put your balls away! The ball thief is here!" His reputation preceded him.

When I tell people that Hercules could stop traffic, I don't mean it metaphorically. Cars have stopped, rolled down their windows, and talked to us for minutes about how incredibly handsome he was.

Whenever strangers learned of his name, they'd nod knowingly, "Of course!" Everyone seemed to agree that he lived up to his mythical name.

It was undeniable that Hercules had a massive presence.

Navigating Complex Emotions That Come With Pet Loss

The biggest presence he had was in my partner's heart. It was clear Hercules would always be his number one. I'd never seen anyone love something so completely.

As my partner and I got more serious, so did my jealousy of Hercules.

I wanted what Hercules had: my partner's unconditional affection, laughter, and forgiveness. My partner isn't naturally affectionate with anyone, so watching him pour that much love into Hercules was bittersweet.

Not every love story starts with love at first sight. Some start with jealousy, and a dog who takes up more room than I wanted. Mine did.

As an only child, I'd never had to share the people I loved. My alter ego, Petty Betty, did what she did best. She held Hercules at arm's length for the next eight years.

At that time, I didn't integrate into his routine. I never bought him toys. I helped out where I could, but I usually followed it with a complaint about how Hercules took the spontaneity out of our dating life. It felt like I had a furry obstacle in my way.

I think my partner was shocked that I didn't succumb to Hercules' charms right away like everybody else. I didn’t fall for him then, and thought I never would. Turns out, slowly and steadily, he’d break down all my walls.

Eventually:

I changed my entire wardrobe from black to tan so his fur wouldn't show after I hugged him
I altered my aesthetic to make room for random dog toys and his many, many perches
We broke the golden rule of no outside dirt on the bed because he slept with us every night
I learned to share my partner's attention, knowing Hercules was the fountain of his joy

But changing my heart took more than changing my habits.

It took becoming a life coach and redefining my sense of worth to see Hercules in a new light. I stopped viewing his walks as scheduling obstacles—they became sacred family time. I finally understood that he wasn't taking away from my life, but rather making it fuller whenever I allowed him in.

This only started five years ago, when Hercules was already nine.

Still, those five years gave me some of my favorite memories. One was when he cuddled into my belly for four nights in a row. I don't usually anthropomorphize dogs. I know when they lick your face, it's often because they sense food, not because they're trying to kiss you. So while part of me knew he did this because he was cold, it melted my heart. I don't have children of my own, but this was the first time I felt like I understood mothers. The deep wave of love that took over. The intense focus I had on our breathing and heartbeats. It was extra special because Hercules wasn't a fan of cuddles, and he chose to do this on his own. He chose me.

The Grief That Hides Within Grief

I used to joke that I was Hercules’ "spare human." He usually looked for my partner, tracking him closely as he moved from room to room, ignoring everyone else. But there was one occasion he'd always look for me first: when he felt scared or uncomfortable. He'd find me and lean his full weight on me until I calmed him with long, steady strokes from his forehead to the nub of his tail.

So it broke my heart that on his last day, I wasn't there for him.

I was a few states away when I woke up to a phone call from my partner.

"I'm scared, B."

This wasn't new. My partner has worried about Hercules for as long as I can remember.

"He had a seizure on the beach."

Now I was scared too. The rest of the morning was a blur. Two hours later, I whispered my last "I love you" to Hercules over the phone.

The speed of Hercules' passing has left me in two pieces. It's taking days to reconnect my mind and my body, as they take turns forgetting that he's gone. That he won't be waiting for me when I get home. That I won't get to hug him one more time. For a dog with that much presence, his absence fills every moment of the day.

The first yogurt cup after Hercules passed away. I turned around to give it to him, only to remember that he was gone.

My mind has been looping for days, trying its best to make sense of what happened. Figuring out if we did right by Hercules in his final hours. Wondering if he was in pain, or scared. If he knew my partner was by his side the whole time. If he knew we fought for him. Wondering what I missed out on in those first eight years, and whether I'll always regret not loving him sooner. I hope he knew that while I only came around to him five years ago, he now rests in the deepest part of my heart.

Of all the moments I replay, one keeps coming back. When the doctors told us that Hercules was gone, my partner asked me over the phone, "How do I leave him?"

This wasn't a technical question. It was an emotional one: How do you leave someone you love for the very last time?

We couldn’t. Instead, we asked the vet to carry Hercules out first, so my partner wouldn't have to feel like he was leaving Hercules behind in a room alone.

Who goes through the door first matters—for one last time, Hercules led the way, as he always did on our walks.

A Letter to My Dog

Dear Hercules,
It may not have been my choice to have you as my first dog, but I'm so grateful you were.
You may not have been my best friend, but you were one of my most important teachers.
You showed me how to be myself, unrelentingly, and trust that someone out there will still love me to smithereens.
You taught me to take no shit. That you can say "no" the moment you don't like something, and move on.
You reminded me to bask in the sunlight daily, and to rest for as long as I needed.
You showed me the best qualities of my partner: sweet, dedicated, nonjudgmental, silly.
You taught me not to look at my watch. To just "follow the dog," and trust it'll be a great time.
May you keep running on the beach, like you did that morning, right before your seizure.
May you find your way to your friends, who are forever waiting for you in Central Park.
With privilege,
Your stepmom

Learning Not to ‘Fix’ Big Feelings

I don't have a neat lesson to wrap this up with. I just know I no longer want to suppress my grief for the sake of productivity or looking “put together.”

Choosing to stay with this discomfort, rather than rushing past it or turning it into something “worthwhile,” is the unsexy side of authenticity. It’s hard, messy, and occasionally snotty, but grief and realignment doesn't run on a schedule. Honoring these complex feelings as they are—letting the sadness and void sit right alongside the gratitude for the time we shared and the laughter that comes from a forgotten memory—is how I put the shattered parts of me back together.

I know this isn’t for everyone, so I appreciate you taking the time to read this. If you'd like to stay connected or simply follow along as I navigate this season, my mailing list is the best place to go.

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