Remembering Jet On March 2nd
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March 2nd will always feel different now. Our beloved Jet passed unexpectedly at home. She had been sick for a couple of months. We kept thinking she would turn a corner. You know how you do that? You look for small improvements. A better day. A hopeful sign. But she didn’t get better.
She was only eight years old. That number still feels too small.
The last couple of months of Jet’s life were filled with vet visits, medication schedules, watching closely, hoping quietly. She wasn’t herself. But she was still ours. Still steady, still sweet and still Jet.
When she passed, it was at home. And as heartbreaking as that was, I’m grateful she was here. Not in a sterile room. Not somewhere unfamiliar. She was in her space. With her people.
Luna knew she was gone. Luna was there when Jet passed. I will never forget the way she walked around her sister afterwards. Not playful. Not confused. Just slow. Aware. Animals know.
She didn’t bark. She didn’t nudge her the way she normally would. She understood something had changed. That part broke my heart in a way I wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t just our loss. It was hers too.
The house felt different, after Jet passed, the house was quieter. Even when nothing is making noise, you feel the absence. No nails clicking across the floor. No familiar breathing at night.
No weight shifting at the foot of the bed.
Grief shows up in small moments. You reach for the leash. You glance at the usual spot on the couch. You expect to see her. And then you remember.
Eight years was not enough. People sometimes say, “At least you had eight years.” But when you love a dog, there is no “at least.” There is only: I wish it had been longer.
Jet was steady. Loyal. A road trip companion. A presence. She wasn’t loud. She didn’t demand attention. She just stayed close. And sometimes that quiet love is the deepest kind.
Luna just like Jet were rescue pups. We had brought Luna home about 6 months before Jet passed. I am glad that they both had each other to play with and enjoy each other.
After losing Jet, loving Luna feels different. Not less. Just more aware. I notice things more.
I’m more protective. I pay attention to small changes. Grief does that. It teaches you that nothing is guaranteed. Luna lost her sister. We lost our girl. But in that loss, I’ve also learned something about love. It doesn’t shrink when someone is gone. It stretches; it makes room for memories.
March 2nd will always hold a softness for me. Not because it doesn’t hurt. But because it reminds me how deeply we loved her. Jet wasn’t “just a dog.” She was part of our daily rhythm.
Part of our travels. Part of our family. And she always will be.
If you’ve ever lost a pet, you know. They take up space in your life long after they’re gone. And sometimes, the smallest paw prints leave the deepest marks.
