Two years.
It’s hard to believe that two years have passed since I said goodbye to Snookie. In some ways, it feels like yesterday. And in other ways, it feels like it was a lifetime ago.
Snookie was part of my life for 16 years. He wasn't simply a cat who lived in my home. He was family. My funny, opinionated, incredibly loving “dog-cat” who somehow always seemed to know exactly what I was saying and had no problem letting me know what he thought about it.
He had his own language, his own routines, his own personality, and an uncanny ability to make me laugh.
And then one day, he was gone.
The second anniversary can be its own kind of hard.
People sometimes think that grief gets easier in a straight line. I don't think it does.
The first year is filled with so many “firsts” ~ the first birthday without them, the first holiday, the first time you walk through the door and don't hear them, the first anniversary of the day they died.
But the second year can bring something unexpected. There aren't as many firsts anymore. Instead, there are memories. And sometimes those memories sneak up on you.
A familiar sound. A certain time of day. A place where they used to sleep. A little habit your other pet has that reminds you of them. A photograph that appears on your phone. A memory you haven't thought about in months that suddenly feels as vivid as if it happened yesterday.
And then there are anniversaries. You may think you're doing okay. Life has moved forward. You're laughing again. You're busy. You're making new memories. Then the anniversary approaches, and something inside you remembers.
That is anniversary grief.
It doesn't mean you're going backward. It doesn't mean you haven't healed. It simply means that a date connected to someone you loved can still carry emotional weight.
I still miss him. I don't think I'll ever stop. But what has changed is the way I carry the missing. In the beginning, the absence felt enormous. The quiet was loud. I missed his physical presence, his little sounds, his personality, and all those ordinary moments I never realized I would one day desperately wish I could have back.
Two years later, I still miss those things. But the sadness isn't always the first thing I feel anymore. Sometimes it's gratitude. Gratitude that I got 16 years with this extraordinary little soul. Gratitude for the laughter. Gratitude for the companionship. Gratitude for the ridiculous little things that made him him. And gratitude for the love that doesn't disappear simply because his physical presence did.
Some pets leave pawprints deeper than we ever realize.
Snookie changed me.
He reminded me that animals aren't “just pets.” They become part of the rhythm of our lives. They are there when we're celebrating, when we're hurting, when we're lonely, when we're laughing, and during all the completely ordinary days in between. They become woven into our memories. Into our homes. Into our hearts.
That's why losing them can hurt so deeply. And that's also why I don't believe we ever really lose everything they gave us. The relationship changes, but it doesn't disappear.
Snookie isn't here to tap my face in the morning or steal my pens. I can't hear his voice or watch him curled up beside Pumpkin. But I can still remember. I can still smile. I can still tell his stories. I can still feel the love. And in that way, he is still part of my life.
Sometimes, I think they find little ways to say hello.
Every once in a while, I'll see a butterfly hovering near me when there doesn't seem to be any particular reason for it to be there. Just me. Just a butterfly. And I can't help but think, Hi, Snookie.
Maybe it's simply a butterfly. Maybe it's my heart looking for a little connection to someone I miss. Or maybe, just maybe, it's Snookie's way of reminding me that he's still nearby. I choose to believe the last one. And when that butterfly lingers for just a little longer than expected, I smile. Because grief has taught me that sometimes we don't need to know for certain. Sometimes it's enough to feel connected.
Our pets remain forever in our hearts.
That may be one of the most comforting things I've learned through losing Snookie.
Healing doesn't mean forgetting. Moving forward doesn't mean moving on from them. And loving another pet doesn't replace the one we've lost. There is room in our hearts for all of them.
Pumpkin still carries little reminders of Snookie for me. Sometimes she'll do something that makes me stop and think, oh, Snookie used to do that. For a moment, the years between then and now seem to disappear. And I am grateful. Because perhaps that is one of the gifts our pets leave behind. They give us memories that time cannot take away.
Two years without Snookie has taught me that grief and love can exist together. I can miss him and be happy. I can remember him and laugh. I can feel the ache of his absence and still be incredibly grateful that he was mine. The goal isn't to stop missing them. The goal is to learn how to carry the love without being consumed by the loss.
And maybe that's what healing really looks like. Not forgetting. Not letting go. But learning to carry them with us in a different way.
On special days, I still light my Butterfly Blessings memorial candle for Snookie. I let the candle glow, think about him, and remember the 16 years we had together. It has become a small ritual of remembrance; a quiet moment to acknowledge that even though he isn't here in the way I wish he were, the love is still here. A framed photo sits next to my bed of the two of us. A nightly reminder that he’s still family. Still here. In my heart.
And sometimes, when the candle is glowing and a butterfly happens to find its way near me, I like to imagine that Snookie is saying hello.
Two years later, he is still missed. Still loved. Still remembered. And forever a part of my heart.
Because some pawprints don't fade.
They simply become part of who we are.
