["Let Inga Tell You," La Jolla Light, published March 16, 2026] 2026
Recently a news story appeared about Olympic Alpine skier Lindsay Vonn who had hoped to compete again this year in Milan but suffered a career-ending compound tibial fracture during her first run. The headline read "Tragedy strikes Lindsey Vonn." But the tragedy the article described? Her dog Leo died. Forget the leg.
Having recently lost our beloved 16-year-old bichon-poodle mix, Lily, we understood this well. Her predecessor, our much-adored English bulldog, Winston, died on his own terms of a sudden heart attack. We hadn't had to euthanize a pet before Lily. My husband and I both admit that we are not doing well without her.
I wrote about Lily in my February 5 column and was fortunate to get many wonderfully compassionate responses. Losing a cherished fur family member is, alas, an all-too-common experience.
All of the comments were lovely but there were three that especially touched me.
One was a ten-hanky poem concluding I have left paw prints on your heart. Yes, Lily did indeed do just that.
Another reader noted, "Winston was surely there in heaven to greet Lily when she arrived." I'm not particularly religious but this image truly cheers me.
And finally, a very kind man noted after his own experience losing a beloved pet: There is no better friend and few harder losses, adding, They say time heals all wounds. There may be exceptions to that rule.
I couldn't agree more. Definitely feeling that exception.
I've had plenty of time recently to ponder why the loss of a pet is often so much harder than losing a person even people we've loved very much.
It's well known that animals' pure unconditional love creates an incredibly strong emotional bond. They are the companions who shape your home's routines and rhythms. They love you - and you them - with a steady uncomplicated devotion.
And then, all of sudden, it's really quiet. The silence is literally deafening.
You don't realize until after your beloved fur child is gone how much she's affected every one of your senses. The sound of her paws on the floor, the weight of her on your lap, the pure joy of her silly expressions, the sound of her bark when the mail man breaches the front porch, the softness of her wooly head, and yes, even the ever-present doggy breath. (If there was one way I failed Lily, it was not brushing her teeth enough. But we both really hated it.)
But worst of all, the quiet.
She was a presence who was woven into every corner of my day. When I was outside watering the plants, she was right nearby, chasing rivulets of water down the patio. She provided guard dog duties when I took out the trash at night, and supervised unloading of groceries from the car. As I made dinner at night, she sat rapt while I ran column ideas by her. (She wasn't too pleased with the City Council either.)
Assisting with laundry was one of her favorite activities. Once all the clean clothes were in neat stacks on the bed, she liked to pounce on them like a lioness in the Serengeti, flinging underwear and socks into the air with happy abandon. She especially loved burrowing into a pile of laundry still warm from the dryer, luxuriating in this toasty cocoon. If people ever thought we smelled like dog, that was probably why.
Who would have thought such a little dog could have so much stuff? It wasn't just the custom ramps in every room that we had made to help her get up on beds and furniture after her two knee replacements. She had beds next to my reading chair and another next to my desk. A substantial section of kitchen countertop was dedicated to her arsenal of medications, non-refrigerated cuisine, shampoos, and anti-itch mousses. A whole shelf in the fridge housed her homemade foods. There were water dishes (she drank like a camel) in almost every room. She had a selection of soft fuzzy blankets for snuggles on the sofa or on laps, and for lining her two dog beds. The table by the front door was entirely usurped by leashes, harnesses, collars, assorted car seat belts and of course, poop bags. The hooks in the laundry room stored her puffer jackets (as she got thinner, she got cold more) and her much-hated rain coat. (Fortunately it doesn't rain much here.) We had foam blocks to raise her food and water dishes higher as she got older. It was too painful to look at all this after she was gone but its absence makes the house feel utterly barren. It's like we just gained 1,000 square feet of living space that we absolutely don't want.
One item that I am so glad I saved was Squeaky Pup. Early on, I got Lily a set of six squeaker balls, but she glommed on to one of them and eschewed the rest. Because she treated it like her child - licking it, cradling it tenderly with her paws - it became known as Squeaky Pup. She would not go to bed at night without Squeaky Pup in bed with us. You couldn't fool her by trying to swap one of the same color. She knew Real Squeaky Pup from the imposters.
Our bedtime routine after "final pee" and taking off her collar for the night was to locate Squeaky Pup to bring to bed. It had sometimes rolled under furniture or gotten lost under a blanket during the day. We'd carefully search every room, both of us looking under desks and behind doors. She loved this ritual. The funny thing was that she often knew exactly where it was but just enjoyed the sport of hunting for it. If I truly couldn't find it, I'd shrug my shoulders and say, "Lily, are you sure you don't know where it is?" And then, a minute later, she'd appear with it.
Squeaky Pup now resides on my desk. I'd give anything to be searching for Squeaky Pup with Lily again. It was a nightly conversation, a shared game, a cherished rite, her sense of humor in action.
She's been gone for some weeks now but the entire day still feels wrong. I think one of the hardest parts I feel is not being greeted with a white bundle of ecstatic wiggles when I come through the front door. My husband, although always glad to see me, just isn't an ecstatic wiggles kind of guy.
The empty floor spaces where Lily's beds were just haunt me as well. I was able to move things around the kitchen counters and in the refrigerator but there is nothing to be done about the bare spaces on the floor where Lily would be sleeping nearby when I was reading or writing.
She made everyday tasks seem warm and connected. Now they just seem like chores. How am I supposed to do those things alone?
She and Olof shared many rituals as well, especially their daily walks. They also watched a lot of sports together. She was much better at feigning interest than I was.
Even her doggie friends miss her. They stick their noses through our gate and wait for her. They seem puzzled when she doesn't come.
Sometimes the smallest stuff really gets me. Last week I found a can of organic pumpkin - a chief ingredient of Lily s homemade food - tucked into a corner of the counter. I just completely lost it. Ditto picking up her ashes, and the plaster cast of her paw print.
Olof has often remarked in recent weeks that a light has gone out in this house. And so much joy with it. We're just so profoundly sad.
My main goal these days is trying to channel grief into gratitude. I'm heartbroken that I'll never again have her snoozing in my lap making soft coo-ey noises as I stroke her head. But I'm grateful I had so many opportunities to do so because the pleasure was most definitely just as much mine.
So yes, Lindsey Vonn, your fellow pet owners get it. Shattered leg? Bad news. Loss of the beloved Leo? Absolutely tragic.
