Although it's been six weeks since the loss of my sweet little Max, I am still deeply heartbroken. There's cold silence when entering the house, emptiness at the kneehole of my desk and missing meal time snackery. I no longer begin my day with snuggles and kisses. He is not there. I am sadden by the empty blanket behind the driver's seat on car trips. I still find myself calling his name or reaching down to stroke his warm soft fur. He is not there. It struck me that in the past 7 years of retirement, I spent nearly 24 hours a day with him. Rituals, routines, rhythms. It is going to take a long time to heal from this pain.

I am under-girded by so many kind souls around me. My wife created a "Max Memorial" on top of the file cabinet in the den. Max's collar and tags, the blue card paw print made by the vet, the stirring paw print clay impression and lock of Max's hair from the funeral home, the dog/owner wood pieces and Angel with Sheltie from my daughter Laura, the 3D Sheltie card from Alaska Railroad enthusiast Skip Williams, the black and white canvas art from my daughter Anne, the dozens of cards from family, friends, grandsons and pet specialists. We also received a dozen yellow roses in crystal vase from a thoughtful neighbor.

I am grateful to those who cared for my little Max, my wife and I at the end. Our veterinarian, Dr. Patridge, was so compassionate and gentle with Max when she put him to sleep and carried him to our car. My son, a principal funeral director in Kentucky, awaited our call. Once we arrived at the funeral home, he took us to the pet crematorium. Beautiful of face and fur, color and coat, it was unthinkable for me to place Max in the ground. I chose to cremate him.

I always admired my son's compassion with his clients. Now I got to experience it first hand. My sweet little Max, wrapped in his favorite camouflage blanket, was gently placed on a gurney. After hugs and condolences, we left to grab a bite to eat. We returned an hour later to retrieve Max. We were presented with a brown bag covered in paw prints. My son opened the bag and shared its contents. Max's ashes were in a beautiful wooden box. I was deeply moved by the clay paw print impression with his name and the lock of his hair stapled to the Rainbow Bridge poem. As I got in the car to leave, the overwhelming heaviness of the loss hit me like sledgehammer. I sobbed uncontrollably for quite some time. Those around me shed tears as well. As I drove home, I realized my son had green lighted everything in advance. Upon arrival, we were treated as the priority. Wow.

How could the loss of a dog jolt me so deeply? A friend later explained - Max was not a dog, but a member of the family. His love, loyalty, devotion and intelligence placed him in the inner circle.

Several days later my wife surprised me with a heavy package. Inside was a wonderful memorial stone complete with an etched photo of my happy little Max. We buried him in the prayer garden on our property placing the memorial stone on top. I visit him from time to time. I talk and he listens. With every visit, I am reminded that time with all our loved ones is short. Make the most of each and every moment.

Photographs courtesy of John Combs