It’s strange how quiet a house gets when one little creature isn’t in it.
My dog, Bugsy, is at my Mum’s this weekend. He’s being absolutely spoiled, no doubt about that. She’s probably made him scrambled eggs and is reading him bedtime stories while feeding him snacks off a Royal Doulton plate. He’s living the high life. I know he’s happy. I know she adores having him. And he loves her too.
But the truth? I miss him like hell.
It’s only the second time we’ve been apart since I adopted him a year ago, and I feel a bit like I’ve misplaced a piece of my heart. I keep expecting to hear the jingle of his collar or feel his weight settle next to me on the bed. My eyes keep flicking toward the door like he’s about to burst through it at any second. But he won’t. Not till Sunday.
I miss his presence. His energy. His ridiculous snoring.
He’s my baby. My child. My constant.
And yet, there’s something really beautiful about this too.
Letting go, even just for a weekend, is a practice.
It’s a reminder that love doesn’t vanish just because someone’s not physically there.
It’s about trust. About knowing that connections hold, even when they stretch.
Sometimes we hold on tight because we’re scared.
Of change. Of distance. Of losing the very things that give us joy.
But love, real love, doesn’t fall apart when you give it space.
It deepens.
I like that I can give Bugsy this time with someone who loves him. That I can share his joy. That I don’t need to control every moment to feel connected. And even though I miss him, I know we’ll both be better for it.
The silence is loud without him. But it’s not empty.
It’s full of trust.
