It’s been a month since Penny died.
And I’ve tried. I’ve really, really tried to sit down and write something about her—about what she meant, what losing her has done to me—but every time I started, I couldn’t get through it. The words would show up, but they’d twist into knots in my throat before I ever got them out. But today, a month later, I’m going to try again. Because Penny deserves the words. All of them.
She always did.
Penny was more than a dog. I know people say that about their pets, and I get it. But in my case, it’s not just sentiment. It’s the truth. Penny was with me from the moment she was born. I was there that cold December night, watching over her litter—two pups already gone, and the tiny runt barely hanging on. That was Penny. Too stubborn to quit. Too stubborn not to live.
She wasn’t even supposed to be my dog, not originally. Her parents belonged to an ex, but when things fell apart, I didn’t walk away from Penny. I bought her outright—no questions, no strings, no what-ifs. People thought it was strange. Said she should’ve just been given to me. But I didn’t care. I didn’t want anyone to ever have the power to say she wasn’t mine. She was my girl from the beginning. I made sure of it.
And she saved me more times than I can count.
Back then, I was newly single, figuring out life alone, learning what quiet felt like in a house that was only ever loud on the weekends when the kids were home. That silence? It was brutal. Coming back home on Sundays after dropping them off was the hardest part. I hated Sundays. But once I had Penny, I wasn’t coming home to empty anymore. She filled the silence. She filled the space. She made life feel less hollow.
We had our routines. Our quirks. She’d wait for her “Penny tax” any time I brought home a rotisserie chicken—patiently watching, somehow always knowing when the skin was about to come off. If I made eggs, you could bet she was getting one. And I will never understand how she always knew when I was getting into a package of pepperoni. She’d give me those slow, deliberate licks on my bald head when she thought I needed them. And yeah, she’d stress me out too. I was more of a helicopter parent with her than I ever was with Abby or Canaan. But that’s because she wasn’t just a dog. She was family. She was mine. She was ours.
Penny was a full-blooded Chinese Shar-Pei, through and through. Wrinkled, stubborn, not a fan of her head being petted, and way too dignified to fetch. We used to call her our “cat dog” because she acted more like a feline than a canine most days—lounging, snoring, deciding when and how she wanted affection. She wasn’t a lapdog. She didn’t give kisses. But if she turned her back to you and expected scratches, you better believe you were one of her people.
And if you were one of her people, that was it. You were under her protection. That’s how she operated. I might’ve been her person—her protector—but when I wasn’t around, she stood guard. She protected Jenna. She protected the kids. She watched over the house. And I could travel for work, knowing she was home, keeping things safe in her own quiet, loyal way.
She didn’t need to be loud about it. She just needed to be there. And she always was. (Don’t misunderstand, though—the girl could also be loud!)
When Jenna and I moved in together, it was always the three of us—me, her, and Penny. And even when we didn’t have the kids, we had that little family. She’d curl up in her bed, lay behind my head on the couch, lay close to Jenna, or stretch out on the floor nearby, always close enough that I could feel her presence. Sometimes, she’d just lay there and breathe. And that was enough.
If the kids were home, that was a different story. Typically, spending time in each kid’s room, checking in on them. She was always the calmest and happiest when everyone was home. And nothing will break your heart more than watching a dog who goes back to those same rooms, to check and see that those rooms are empty again. She herself hated seeing them go back to their moms.
But mixed into the quiet rituals and slow days were these bright, unforgettable moments where she was part of something bigger—part of our story.
Like when Jenna told me we were pregnant. She didn’t say it outright—she didn’t have to. Instead, Penny came walking in with a bandana around her neck that read, “Big Sister.” That’s how I found out we were having Harrison. Penny was the messenger for one of the most life-changing announcements of my life. And she wore it like a badge of honor, proud and completely unaware of just how perfect that moment was.
And then when we finally got to bring Harrison home from the NICU after a week—Penny was right there, waiting. She didn’t bark or whine or crowd him. She approached slowly and gently, while being curious and protective in the most instinctive way. She understood. She accepted him. From that moment on, he was hers. One more added to her circle of people she watched over. And she did.
I don’t know how to explain the kind of companionship we had without it sounding dramatic, but honestly? She saved me. Over and over again. Through breakups. Through long nights. Through hard days and fear and stress—especially since Harrison was born. She was just there. Not asking. Not needing. Just offering. Comfort in the form of 50 pounds of snoring, wrinkly loyalty. If I ever took a nap in the middle of the day or the afternoon after work, I was guaranteed to have a partner in crime laying right above me on the back of the couch cushions.
A month ago, she chose her spot on the kitchen floor and laid down. She didn’t hide. She didn’t go off somewhere. She wanted to be where her people were and where she could see all of us. And when it was time, I held her head in my hands and told her it was okay. That she didn’t have to fight anymore. That I’d take it from here. That I’d keep everyone safe and that we’d be ok.
I meant it then. I still do. But God, I miss her.
I miss the sound of her nails on the hardwood. I miss the quiet moments when she’d sneak up just to be near me. She would be at my feet under the table, and I wouldn’t even realize it. I miss the weight of her head on my foot or how she’d weigh down and take over half the comforter when she’d insist on sleeping at the foot of the bed. I miss her smell—yeah, I know, that might sound weird—but it was her. And I’d give anything to have just a little more of it.
Now I dread Sundays again. That feeling I used to have after dropping the kids off? It’s back. The house feels off. Too quiet. And yeah, I’ve kept myself busy—yard’s never looked better—but I’m doing it so I don’t have to sit inside and feel her absence. If I’m outside, if I’m busy, I can trick my brain into thinking she’s still here. Just sleeping in Abby’s room. That she’s not really gone.
Penny was my first real pet. Yes, we had pets growing up, but Penny was my first bond like that. And I honestly don’t know if I’ll ever find that again. She was one of a kind. She was the best girl. My girl.
There will never be another dog like Penny. And I will never stop missing her.
But I’ll keep my promise. I’ve got it from here, pup pup.
You did good.
You were a good girl.
The best.
Always and forever—Daddy’s Penn Penn.