Today marks 14 weeks since Penny passed.
Fourteen weeks, and I still cry for her.
Still miss her.
Still find myself stumbling across her absence in ways I can’t always explain. Not allow parts of myself to accept this new reality.
I’ve written about her before. I’ve tried to capture who she was, what she meant to me. But there’s one thing I keep coming back to, one thing no picture or video could ever translate:
Her eyes.
Not just how they looked. But what they held.
Penny didn’t have those big, round puppy dog eyes you see in calendars or commercials. She had soul eyes—eyes that always seemed to be watching, taking in the world around her, reading the room, reading me.
She was never not listening. Never not paying attention.
She could be snoring like a freight train, dead asleep on the floor, and the second you said her name, those ears would twitch. She was always tuned in. Even if she looked completely checked out.
She wasn’t the most affectionate dog, not in the classic, always-wants-to-cuddle sense. She showed love on her terms. You earned that with Penny. And when she gave it, it meant something.
She didn’t care for fetch. Tug-of-war was fine. But Penny’s favorite game?
Roughhousing. Boxing. Wrestling.
It was just me and her, and from the outside looking in, it probably looked insane. She’d growl, bark, pounce, show her teeth, making all kinds of noise like she was ready to tear me up. But it was never aggressive. It was calculated. Gentle. Controlled.
She knew exactly what she was doing.
From the very beginning, she was careful. Even in full beast-mode, she was aware of her strength. She never bit. Never hurt. Not even accidentally.
The first few times Jenna saw us play like that, I think it rattled her. Thought maybe Penny was going to snap or misjudge something. But she never did.
Eventually, Penny started roughhousing with Jenna too, but only on her own terms. She made her own rules. If Jenna wanted to play that way, Penny insisted – insisted, she wear long sleeves. Like she had some unspoken rule: “If I accidentally catch your arm, I need to know it won’t hurt you.”
It was just… who she was.
So careful. So aware.
So conscious of herself and how she interacted with the people she loved.
She was loud. (Good lord, that snoring.)
But she was often the quiet presence in the room.
Content to just be.
Watching. Listening.
Tuned into things that nobody else noticed.
I’ve written thousands of words about Penny, and I’ll probably write thousands more. But I’ll never be able to fully describe what she was. Who she was.
There was something behind those eyes.
Something steady.
Something knowing.
She wasn’t just a pet.
She was a protector.
A shadow.
A companion who anchored me in ways I didn’t even realize until she was gone.
Fourteen weeks.
And it still feels like she’s just in the other room sometimes.
Still feels like I’ll look up and see her watching me.
And when I don’t—
That’s when it hurts most.
So if this post feels scattered or repetitive or overly emotional… that’s because it is.
Because she was worth it.
Every word. Every tear. Every memory.
She was my Penny.
And I miss her more than I know how to say.
I think she’s still listening. Just… from another room.