The grief and guilt of loving a lost dog.

Since this story was published, Holly's dog Elvi has been found and has sadly passed away. Holly and her family thank the Mamamia community for their support.

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Our family dog disappeared last week. 

One minute I was sitting up in bed, tapping at my laptop, and the next minute my partner Brent was a dark shape in the door frame. He asked, "Is Elvi with you?" and everything changed.

It's ridiculous, really, how much it hurts.

I am a 50-year-old woman who has lived through some sadness - no life escapes some sadness - and there are people close to me who have suffered unthinkable losses, and some who are still suffering, so I have some perspective on grief.

And yet yesterday, I car-sobbed in our driveway for 10 minutes, trying to steel myself to walk inside our house and not see my dog.

Our dog, Elvi. Image: Facebook/Finding Elvi.

As anyone who shares a residence with a staffy knows, a return home must be marked with at least 10 minutes of running back and forward between you and who-knows-where, jumping in an attempted hug that feels more like a tackle. 

Her tail on a high-speed circular motor-motion, tongue lolling from a toothy smile, grunts and whines of pleasure filling the hallway. You came back, every inch of her is saying. Her entire body generates exclamation marks with each shudder. You came back!!!!!

We live two hours south of the city, and I travel up for work most weeks, so Elvi reunions are common, yet her excitement never dims. It also never dims for my daughter getting home from school every afternoon, for Brent getting back from putting the bin out the front, or for my son returning from a stint in his bedroom. Dogs are indiscriminate in being stupidly pleased to see you.

Last Tuesday, when I walked in the door from the long drive, I was tired. Grouchy. I asked Brent when he was ever going to train Elvi not to jump up. I shoved her down, urging her to chill out. The moment I sank onto the couch, she leapt up, too, positioning her considerable weight right on my knee, her head on my shoulder. "Stupid dog," I said, scratching her ear, kissing her velvety snout, pushing her off. 

That was the night she disappeared from the garden while she was out having her pre-bed wee. The night Brent came to the door. The night we spent out in the dark, calling and searching and calling and searching with our phone torches and camping lanterns on our small town's unlit streets. The night we went to bed way after midnight, cold with all the doors open, knowing she'd be back in the morning.

She wasn't back in the morning. Now it's been eight nights and seven days and she still isn't back.

It's ridiculous, how much I miss the weight of her on our bed at night (I know, I know). 

How there's negative space at my feet wherever I am in the house - the kitchen, the garden, the... shower. It's a space she would usually fill with her busy job of keeping an eye on things. Ensuring, primarily, that no-one was cooking up any outrageous plans to go anywhere without her, anywhere at all.

It's ridiculous, really, how our home seems to suddenly have a joy deficit, like the brightness has been turned down, the colour faded and everything is just that little bit more sh*t. Her bed lies at the front door, wafting out a homecoming scent. Her bowl is next to that. Her blanket. Her lead. Her ball.

She'll be back for them, I tell the kids, brightly. But their reactions have turned. At first there were tears and terror for their beloved puppy. But the rain. But the cold. Then there was a rush of creative assistance in the search, drawings and pictures and postering expeditions.

This is the poster our son Billy has drawn to help find Elvi. Image: Facebook/Finding Elvi.

Now they are both quiet, sullen, wary. The world has just taught them a lesson that everything can change in an instant and the constants you count on - that you love - can vanish, overnight. However Mum and Dad try to dress it up, it's a brutal lesson for children to learn even if it may, one day, serve them well.

The thing is. We know, you know: A dog is just a dog. But also we know they are so much more. They are a living, breathing animal, worthy of dignity, autonomy, love and care. But a pet dog is also a place you put your feelings. The affection you can't quite express, the playfulness you should have long left behind, the edgy frustration of a bad day worked out in a wrestle, a run, a hug. They are silly when you need to laugh. They are talking points when you are speechless. They are the weight beside you when you are sad.

Now our house is full of feelings flying around with nowhere to go. We are taking turns with our anger, our tears, our frustration, our reminiscence. We are learning what we do without her. We don't want to get good at it.

 Image: Facebook/Finding Elvi.

It's ridiculous how Brent and I walk her walk, every day. Down to the creek where she likes to run and splash and charge at other dogs at great speed, changing course at the last possible second like a high-speed jet boat heading for a cliff.

We call her name; we take her leash. Everyone we pass already knows. They're the people who lost their dog. Everyone's got their eyes open. Everyone's thinking of us.

So how much is enough, in searching for a vanished member of your family? The guilt lingers of whether we stayed up late enough that first night, pushed hard enough in the moments Elvi was, most likely, closest to us? We didn't want to wake the children, spark their inevitable panic, so did we not call loud enough, take the search far enough, wake enough neighbours? 

And now, there are a hundred places to put your money and your hope to track a lost love - rewards, door-knocking pet detectives, psychics, heat-seeking drones, bloodhounds, trackers. We wade through it all, weighing up realistic options and impossible choices. Is it enough? Will it ever be enough? 

It's ridiculous, the way your heart is in your mouth with every pinged Facebook Message, every text. Here's a dog, is it her? What about this one? How about now?

It's ridiculously wonderful and terrible that my inboxes are full of stories of reunited pet families, weeks, months, years in the making.

It's ridiculous, how grateful we are that people are looking alongside us, keeping her in their thoughts, willing her home. 

It's ridiculous, really, just how much we miss her.

Elvi was a rescue dog who was adopted as a puppy via Pet Rescue and Fetching Dogs. If you would like to donate in her memory, please do so, here. 

Feature Image: Instagram @wainwrightholly/Facebook at Finding Elvi.