It has occurred to me that I have never experienced the loss of a loved one. I’m probably lucky that every family member who is dead has been dead since before my birth. I always imagined it would be painful. I never imagined who would be the first.

Digger was 13-years old. He was a brown and white beagle, loud as can be and an overall lover of attention. Whenever he wasn’t getting attention or another dog was being loved, he would find someway to push himself in, someway to gain pity.

I hated him. I especially hated him for this. It was like the only reason he lived was for his own selfish pleasure. That’s what I always disliked about dogs. One way or another, they have an ulterior motive; they selfishly pull at you from every direction for some sort of love, constantly wanting it and showing their true colors if you don’t show your love fast enough.

So on Feb. 17, when my father told me Digger might need to be put down, I feigned my sadness, made it seem like I was crushed. He’s been sick for a while now, so I didn’t think too much of it. If it was his time, then that was that; I didn’t feel much towards him anyway, so what did it matter? Before I went to bed that evening, I made sure to take some photos of him, gave him a little hug and whispered my goodbyes. I wish I could take back what I said.

“You can let go now; just let go.”

That’s what I told my little, graying, shaking dog. It seemed poetic, noble even, in my mind, and I thought it was the right thing to say. He must have been in pain for a while now and everyone else had told me he was miserable anyway. But I didn’t mean it like that, I didn’t mean, “Just let go of your pain and go peacefully.”

I didn’t’ even think of that; I just told him, “Give it up, it’s not worth it anymore.”

The next morning wasn’t what I expected. At 6 a.m. my mother came into my room with two pieces of news: school had been canceled for that day and Digger had died in the night. I thought I’d at least get to say goodbye once more before he went to the vet. But just like that, he was gone.

I tried to push it to the back of my mind, have a nice snow day, but then it happened. A woman came to collect Diggers body for cremation, and I saw him. Not all of him, just his ear and his leg. I had tried everything to avoid seeing him like that, and even after he was taken, I stayed out until 9 that evening. But I saw him, lifeless, hollow.

I’d never be able to see him alive, running around and being a selfish little dog ever again. He’s gone. The last image I have of him is wrapped in a yellow towel, dead. More than anything, the painful part is that in an instant, life died and will never come back.

And all I said to him was “Just let go.”

I didn’t tell him that I loved him, I didn’t even say goodbye. Just let go.

I killed him, even if it was just caused by old age or a stroke; I left him with just those words. I asked him a favor, and he went through with it. If I had even known a fraction of the pain I would feel, I may have stayed with him through the night.

Worse than just Digger, I now know what I have to expect for the rest of my life. Each new bond I form just like a new chapter in my life’s story, waiting to be ripped out and leave me empty. If I have to see everyone I love perish as I go, I don’t think I’ll have enough pages to keep me whole.

I only wish I hadn’t been so willing to just let go of Diggers chapter so easily.