The First Christmas Without the Dog

Every Christmas morning for nine years, the presents were opened in the same order: first the dog's. Not because anyone decided it. Because he decided it. He knew which parcel was his before anyone did, and he would sit next to it, vibrating, until someone gave in. Then there would be paper everywhere, and a squeaky toy that lasted until about ten o'clock.

This year there is no parcel with his name on it. And the strange thing is that nobody knows whether they are allowed to mention it.

People prepare themselves for the first Christmas without a parent. There are articles, there are sympathetic cards, there is an understanding that the day will be hard. Nobody prepares you for the first Christmas without the dog.

So it catches you sideways. The moment you drop a piece of turkey on the kitchen floor and it just stays there. The walk after lunch that nobody takes anymore, because there is no one standing at the door with that look. The stocking with the paw print on it, still in the box of decorations, which you find in November and put back without saying anything.

"My husband said we shouldn't make a fuss because it was 'only a dog'," a reader in Bristol wrote to me. "Then on Christmas Eve I found him in the garage, crying over the bag of treats he'd bought in October and forgotten."

In 2003, two psychologists, Thomas Wrobel and Amanda Dye, surveyed people who had lost a pet. Most of them described real distress after the death: trouble sleeping, thinking about the animal constantly, feeling its absence in the house. And for a significant share of them, it was still there six months later, and for some, a year later.

In other words: if Christmas is hard this year because the dog isn't there, you are not being dramatic. You are in very large company. The company just doesn't talk about it at dinner.

Hang the stocking anyway, or don't, but decide in advance. The ambush is worse than the decision.

Buy the thing he would have got, and give it to a shelter. A bag of food, a bed, a ridiculous toy in the shape of a sprout. Many shelters have wish lists at Christmas. It turns the empty parcel into a full one somewhere else.

Take the walk. The one after lunch, the same route, even without a lead in your hand. Other people walking their dogs will nod at you. That's fine too.

Let the children talk about him. Children often say out loud what the adults are thinking. "Rufus would have eaten that." Let it be said. Laugh if it's funny. It usually is.

And ask everyone, while you're all at the table, for one story. The time he stole the whole ham. The Christmas he was sick on the vicar. There will be stories you never heard.

A reader named Emma wrote to me about her first Christmas without Bella:

"Bella was a greyhound we adopted when she was already six. She was terrified of everything: the hoover, the doorbell, plastic bags. But she loved Christmas, because it was the only day of the year my dad sat on the floor. Every year he'd sit down with his back to the sofa to open his presents, and every year she would fold herself onto his legs like a deckchair. The first Christmas without her, Dad sat down on the floor out of habit, then just stayed there, with his hands flat on his knees. Nobody said anything. After a while my niece, who's seven, went and lay across his legs. He laughed so hard he couldn't open his presents. I have a photo of it. It's the best picture of Bella I own, and she isn't in it."

Many vets and pet crematoriums send you home with something to keep: a certificate, a paw print, the urn itself. Those belong to the first days, and they do that job beautifully. The years that follow need something to sit alongside them: a place for the Christmas two years later, when your niece lies across your dad's legs and someone gets the camera.

That's why Emma put that photo on Stella Memoria, next to the pictures of Bella herself and the list of everything she was afraid of. Her brother added the Christmas the dog ate an entire box of crackers, paper hats and all. Next December, it will all still be there.

If this is the first Christmas without your dog, you don't have to pretend it's a small thing, and you don't have to make a speech about it either. Take the walk. Tell the story about the ham. And before the day is over, get the stories out of everyone's heads and put them somewhere they'll stay. The squeaky toy lasted until ten o'clock. The stories can last a lot longer.