Lately, I’ve been reflecting on the loss of what I thought was my “normal” self — the laid-back, intelligent, confident, and endlessly creative version of me. But as I looked deeper, I realized much of what kept me grounded over the last decade disappeared when Pete passed away.
The morning walks. The watering. The treats. The sense of purpose. So much of my identity was woven into those simple, sacred routines we shared. Now, without them, I feel unmoored, like my tether to an anchor has been cut. Truthfully, I’m not sure who I am in this moment.
But here’s what I do know: I am still that same person. I’m still the laid-back, intelligent, confident, and creative man I’ve grown into over the years. Yet right now, I’m drifting in unfamiliar waters, searching for the stability that Pete always gave me.
Pete was my anchor.
I’ve started outlining a new book about my journey of transformation while being Pete’s human. It’s not as self-indulgent as it might sound. I’ve been reliving some of the funny and heartwarming memories from our time together.
Like when Pete was younger and struggled with separation anxiety. Countless times, I came home to find trash scattered all over the house. Or the morning I woke up to see him gnawing on a roll of toilet paper he managed to swipe from my bathroom — not unspooling it like a mischievous cat, but carefully chewing it like a determined little weirdo.
There was also the time he destroyed a pair of Bose headphones while I was sleeping. I’ll never forget waking up to the unmistakable sound of crunching plastic.
And of course, there was the infamous green pen incident. I was marking up the manuscript for Written in the Stone when Pete snagged the pen off my desk. He chewed it up, leaving green paw prints on the floor and a huge green blotch on his chest like a badge of honor.
But my favorite memory? The day he chewed up the last DVD I ever rented from Netflix. The movie was Deliverance. I still haven’t seen it.
This grief is unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. When my mom and dad passed, there were rituals — funerals, time off work, the comfort of shared memories. Those things helped me process and say goodbye. But with Pete, finding closure feels impossible, like trying to hold onto fog.
February 17, 2014, changed my life forever. It was the day I brought Pete home — the day that quirky, lovable soul became my anchor.
Now, I’m drifting. And I miss my anchor.
Don’t get me wrong — I still miss my mom and dad deeply. I’d give anything to have shared the experience of hearing Now and Then by the Beatles or the rediscovered demo of Steely Dan’s The Second Arrangement with my dad. And my mom would have been so proud that I’ve devoted my life to helping others find their voice because she spent so much of hers helping me find mine.
But Pete was different. My favorite hello was the day I reached into his cage at the humane society.
And my hardest goodbye was the day I let him go.
I know I’ll find myself again. I’ll care for myself, and I’ll reconnect with my purpose. One day, I’ll come back to an anchor. But I also know there will never be another anchor quite like Pete.
Anyway…I miss my soul puppy.
