I used to think the worst of people, but grief showed me I was wrong

One phrase in my vocabulary gets more usage than any other: “People are the worst.” As a lifelong, card-carrying cynic, all the evidence I find seems to point to this statement as a core truth. But no matter how I crunch the numbers, somehow, saying goodbye to my best and closest friend made the world a better place. My world, at least.

It’s coming on a year since my beloved corgi passed, and as time drags me towards this gloomy anniversary, I’m surprised at how much my perspective has changed.

This is the first big grief of my life. I’ve lost grandparents with whom I wasn’t close, a sick friend who had enough time left to say her goodbyes, and the family dog, but that’s it. Losing Viktor, closest confidant and most loyal companion, didn’t shake my world: it cracked its foundation and dropped a nuclear bomb on it.

Credit: Robin Cowcher

I know that this, in itself, is an immense privilege. To those who have lost a child, partner, close friend, sibling or parent, the comparative pain of losing a pet is barely a pinch. But all emotions are relative, right? The worst thing to ever happen to you only holds the top spot until something else comes along and gives you another, worse worst thing to take its place.

Grief is ugly. It’s not a Joni Mitchell song and a single tear rolling down your cheek, or tracing their picture with your finger while you eat ice cream from the carton. Grief is suffocating and isolating and destructive, and when I was rooted firmly in the “anger” part of the healing process, I wanted to be cruel. I wanted to be unreasonable.

I wanted everyone to acknowledge that Viktor’s passing had fundamentally altered the laws of the universe, and admit that gravity had quadrupled the moment his heart stopped. I wanted them to sob with empathy as they assured me that no one had ever, anywhere, at any point in history, ever, ever, ever been in as much pain as I was in.

The worst thing to ever happen to you only holds the top spot until something else comes along.

I’ve been braced to hear it for a year: “He was just a dog.” I couldn’t wait for someone to dismiss my grief, because their indifference was permission to tear shreds from them.

And then … it didn’t come. Nobody said this — at least not to my face. How inconvenient.

Everywhere I went, no matter who I spoke to, they were all so understanding and so generous with their empathy. People on the other side of the planet, my relationship with whom had lapsed with the distance; Instagram acquaintances whose young children were undergoing treatment for serious illnesses; colleagues; the vet Viktor had tried to bite once when she was clipping his nails. They all reached out, offered their time, shoulders for crying on, and limitless support. Crucially, they continued checking in long after the shock of Viktor’s passing had ebbed and been replaced with a new, unwelcome normal.

Flowers arrived at my doorstep, care packages, books about loss. Unfamiliar with life without a best pal at my side, I had friends “loan” me their dogs for company. Managers gave me sick leave without question. My publisher extended my deadline by six months. People had their own stories about pet grief. They asked me to tell them about Viktor, and laughed when I told them the story about how he climbed up onto the coffee table, drank half an espresso martini, and was a grinning sloppy drunk all night.

People cared about me. That made me want to care about them. Our softness multiplied. Empathy, that endlessly renewable resource, is infectious.

I adopted a new dog recently. Her name is Heidi and she’s six years old, a non-stop chatterbox and the biggest flirt you’ve ever met. While there is no replacing Viktor, his loss has made her life better. I know now what I’ll miss when one day she and I have to part ways.

Every time the shock of her wet nose wrenches me out of a deep sleep, I thank her for the wake-up call. Each bitter morning walk in the rain, I’m grateful we get to spend half an hour doing something she loves. When I find her sprawled across my bed, fast asleep against my pillows, I appreciate her warming my side up for me. I take things slower, I throw the ball for longer, I pay her cheese tax more freely. All the love I have for Viktor, I give to Heidi now: free to a good home.

In some strange way, although the grief is agony and seems never-ending, I’m still grateful for it. It means he was here. It means that the love and support you need is never further away than a phone call, if we’re brave enough to dial.

Maybe just this once, I was wrong. Maybe just this once, people are not the worst; they are wonderful.