Chronicles of Austin Thee Doggo

The Space Between What Was and What Is

Mornings hurt the most. I had always started my day by checking on Austin, telling him good morning, and reaching for him to snuggle before I was even fully awake. He had the most gorgeous eyes and seeing them sparkle every morning gave me the energy to get out of bed. I would open all the curtains, sometimes we would watch the sunrise together, and then we would get our day going. 

Now I wake up and just lie there, caught in that space between what was and what is, before it hits me all over again. He’s not here. And I don’t know where his body is.

Is he still wearing his jacket? Is he in a bag inside a fridge? Is he stored in a box with other dogs, tucked away in a dark room? Has he been cremated?

I’ve always known where he was. He was always by my side or I knew exactly where he was and who he was with. Our house is filled with cameras for the times we had to leave him home, just so we could check on him. I was his guardian and not knowing where he is now kills me.

Austin wasn’t just part of my mornings. He was part of the middle of the day too. I would log off for lunch, eat, and then spend the rest of my break with him. We’d play a little, snuggle a little, and then watch TV. Sometimes it was nothing special. Just him stretching, yawning, and wagging his tail, but it was enough. Those small moments carried me through the rest of the day and gave me rhythm. 

Now I log off, eat, and feel lost with what to do next. Maybe I should start a new hobby or maybe I should go back to writing. I’m often staring into space, playing carousel memories in my head, and catch myself staring at the spots Austin used to be in. Sometimes I think I see his shadow out of the corner of my eye. I know he’s not there, but I still look quickly anyway, hoping to catch a glimpse of a miracle.

After work he helped me decompress. I’ve worked from home since he was a puppy, so I never had a drive to unwind. Austin was that transition for me. No matter how stressful the day had been, he settled everything just by being there. I would hurry to him and wrap my arms around him to give him the biggest hugs. 

Now when I log off, there’s nothing to transition into. No shift, no release. Just a quiet that feels heavier than it should.

Nights feel the longest. I used to tuck him in before settling down myself. He would get comfortable on his side of the bed which was the bottom half and would watch TV like he knew what was going on, until he slowly drifted off to sleep.

Austin always had this thing where he needed to be touching one of us. Even if it was just his paw resting against my leg or his body pressed up against my wife’s foot. Maybe it was a comfort thing for him. Now I realize it was for me too.

I built my days around him without realizing it. Now everything feels slightly off, like I’m moving through a routine that no longer fits.

I spend most of my time in the loft now. It was Austin’s second kingdom. Back when he could still make it up the stairs, he spent so much of his time there. Wandering from room to room, rolling across the carpet, stretched out on the couch, half-watching TV before drifting off for his nap. In the summers, he loved sleeping right under the A/C vent. In the winters, he avoided it completely.

The space still looks the same, but it doesn’t feel the same.

Eventually, sitting with the feelings wasn’t enough. We needed something to do with our hands. We needed movement. So we started going through his things.

We pulled out what had been tucked away like his T-shirts, hoodies, little outfits. Each one held something. A memory. A moment.

Austin had what our veterinarian once called “textbook allergies.” In a way, he was allergic to the world and all we could do was manage his flare ups. He stayed on steroids from puppyhood into adulthood just to stay comfortable. Those clothes weren’t just clothes. They were part of how we cared for him. How we protected him. 

They were his armor.

I ran my hands over each piece, trying to hold onto everything attached to it. Where we went, how he looked, and how old he was in those moments. Some we couldn’t let go of, so we kept about a dozen.

Austin had more clothes than I did. And standing there, looking at what had always been his, didn’t feel real. His side of the closet. His drawers. Now just empty spaces that feel like it belongs to no one.

When we finally went through the rest of his toys, towels, blankets, pillows, medications, grooming supplies, food dishes, treat jars…something shifted and I felt it immediately.

With so much of him put away, the house felt even quieter. Even emptier. Like the same silence we left behind at the veterinarian’s office followed us home and settled into every room.

Part of me thought that if we changed something, it might feel different.

So we did.

We ordered a few memorial pieces that will arrive in the next couple of days and rearranged the living room and the loft. It was like we were trying to shift the weight of what was missing.

I think acceptance is starting to settle in. Slowly and quietly. Not all at once, but in pieces.

In a way, it feels like Austin is giving us permission. For so long, everything was arranged around his comfort. Every space shaped by him, for him. Maybe this is what the space between feels like… learning how to live without him.

And somehow, that’s the part that hurts in a different way. In moments so small they don’t feel final yet and ones I’m not sure I’m ready for.