There Are Two Ways to Measure Time

"There are two ways to measure time: by calendars, and by who shared those years with us."

Long before I thought much about grief education or coaching people through life's difficult seasons, there was Grace. An English Bulldog with an oversized head, an oddly charming underbite, a stubby tail that seemed to develop a life of its own whenever one of our sons came home, and a snore so impressive that if she settled over her favorite heating vent, you could hear it throughout the house.

Looking back now, I don't remember Grace simply as our dog. I remember her as one of the personalities that shaped our family. She loved us deeply, although she simply wasn't especially interested in pleasing us.

She accepted affection on her own terms. Ear scratches were wonderful. A good back scratch was usually welcome, too, until it wasn't. Only with me, she had a remarkably effective way of ending the interaction. She would gently take my wrist into her large, sometimes slightly drooly, mouth, never biting, barely applying pressure. Just firmly enough to stop my hand. Then she'd look directly into my eyes, quietly waiting until I understood our cuddle had come to its natural conclusion. A moment later she'd release my wrist, and we would both move on. Grace was an effective communicator.

As she grew older, bedtime belonged to her. If the television was still on after she had decided the day should be ending, she'd begin an unmistakable, almost indignant whine that continued until someone reached for the remote. The fireplace was our one ongoing disagreement. I'd tell her to stay back, and she'd listen politely before inching closer again, mesmerized by the warmth and the dancing flames.

She greeted strangers with easy curiosity and accepted their admiration without complaint. Children wanted to hug her. Adults couldn't resist commenting on her broad shoulders, underbite, or expressive face. She welcomed the attention for a while. Then, when she'd had enough, she'd simply turn her whole body away and sit down. No awkwardness. No apology. The visit was over.

If I asked her to come, she sometimes looked directly at me, tilted that enormous head to one side, and seemed to be considering my request. "Why?" her expression seemed to ask. "What's in it for me?" She wasn't a highly compliant dog. Oddly enough, that became one of the things I admired most about her.

Grace ate much the same way she lived. Every book warned that Bulldogs would overeat if given the chance. Apparently no one had explained that to Grace. She ate when she was hungry, stopped when she was satisfied, and ignored perfectly good food if she simply wasn't interested.

Walks followed the same philosophy. More than once, Grace decided the middle of a crosswalk was the perfect place to reconsider our walk. Once she had made up her mind, there wasn't much to be done. I'd catch the eye of the waiting drivers, wave apologetically, and call out, "Sorry, we'll be out of your way soon." They usually laughed. Grace never seemed to notice.

She loved us completely, yet preferred sleeping in her own bed, in her own space, often near whichever heating or cooling vent she was favoring. As much as she loved being part of our family, she never confused love with constant closeness.

Over the years, I realized something I hadn't expected. One of the gifts of loving another living creature is that, little by little, you stop expecting them to become someone else. Instead, you begin paying closer attention. You learn what delights them, what comforts them, and what they're trying to communicate without words.

English Bulldogs don't live especially long lives. I knew that almost from the day we brought Grace home. Every birthday carried a quiet awareness that our years together were limited. I didn't have language for it then, but now I recognize those moments as anticipatory grief.

Oddly enough, that awareness never made me want to love her less. If anything, it made me pay closer attention.

Grace has been gone for four years now. There is a "Before Grace" and an After Grace" in our family's story. Not because everything changed the day she died, but because so much of ordinary life had quietly arranged itself around her while she lived.

Perhaps that's why some goodbyes surprise us with the depth of their grief. We don't simply miss the one we loved. We miss the rhythm of a shared life. The familiar sound of a snore drifting through the house. The expectation that someone will greet us at the door. The little negotiations that became so ordinary we barely noticed them while they were happening.

Every meaningful relationship asks something of us long before it asks us to say goodbye. It asks for patience when another personality isn't quite like ours. It asks us to rearrange routines, laugh at inconveniences, notice preferences, and slowly learn another way of being in the world. Looking back, I don't remember those things as sacrifices. They were simply how love looked in everyday life. Knowing that a goodbye is coming has never convinced me to love less deeply.

Whether the relationship is with a beloved pet, a spouse, a parent, a child, or a dear friend, the investment is always worth making. Love inevitably carries risk. We know, if we're fortunate enough to have many years together, one day one of us will have to say goodbye.

Grace didn't simply leave us with memories. She left us with a richer understanding of relationship itself, and I cannot imagine wanting those years back simply because they ended.

About the Author: Brooke Galster-Boston, MA is the founder of Cypress Coaching Services. She works with capable individuals navigating life's most complex transitions, helping them untangle mental and emotional clutter so they can make thoughtful decisions with greater clarity, confidence, and perspective. Learn more about private coaching at CypressCoachingServices.com.