5 Lessons My Dog Taught Me (Even After He Was Gone)

I always knew losing our 16-year-old dog Hunter would break my heart.

What I didn’t know—what I couldn’t have possibly anticipated—was just how deeply that grief would continue to teach me. How he’d still find ways to show up, even when I couldn’t see or touch him. How, in his absence, I’d begin to understand even more clearly the kind of love we shared, and how much of my life and business has been built around that bond.

If you’ve followed Bark & Gold Photography for a while, you know Hunter wasn’t just “my dog.” He was my muse. My stubborn, soulful, 4 a.m. wake-up-calling, shadow under foot who lived and breathed this business right alongside me. You’ve heard his name woven into emails and captions. He sniff-tested sample albums, supervised many a Zoom meeting (mostly from under a blanket on his elevated cot), and he reminded me daily that the love we share with our pets is worth preserving in every possible way.

He was everything to me.

The heartbeat of this business and my heart.

And even now—especially now—I find he’s still teaching me things I didn’t realize I needed to learn.

So today, I want to share five lessons Hunter taught me, some during his 16 beautiful years here, and others in the quiet (and not-so-quiet) ways he’s shown me he’s still very much around.

1. Grief and Gratitude Can Coexist.

Grief is weird.

It doesn’t move in straight lines. It doesn’t follow a five-step checklist. And it definitely doesn’t care what you have planned for the day.

Some mornings, I find myself automatically reaching to slip his collar on before loading into the car together for the day’s adventure. I still turn around too quickly, expecting to trip over my Hunter Underfoot (one of his many nicknames) in the kitchen, only to find empty space. And too often the silence is so loud it’s deafening.

But in the middle of all of that…in the absolute ache of it…there’s also this deep, overwhelming sense of gratitude.

Gratitude that I got 16 years and four months with him. Gratitude that I have portraits of his goofy, joy-filled face literally everywhere in our home. Gratitude for every slow-poke walk, every bedtime snuggle, every crumb he vacuumed off the floor when I dropped it.

I’ve come to learn that grief and gratitude aren’t opposites. They’re partners. The deeper the grief, the deeper the love that came before it. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

There are moments when I miss him so intensely it feels like my chest is folding in on itself, and then there are moments—usually when I walk past one of his portraits on the wall or catch a glimpse of him in a frame on my desk—where I’m overwhelmed not by grief, but by that gratitude. For the happiness he brought. The memories we made. The way he made every season brighter, even when he refused to accept daylight saving time like a tiny, relentless time traveler.

Grief isn’t linear. It’s layered. But there’s space within it for thankfulness. And that’s where healing begins.

2. Signs Are Real—You Just Have to Look for Them.

Let me tell you about the hummingbird.

Less than 24 hours after Hunter passed, I found myself in the front yard, sitting on the stoop of our porch, staring at the one remaining red lily that bloomed long after it should have. As I sat there feeling completely spaced out, a hummingbird buzzed nearby, mere inches in front of my face, holding its position for what felt like forever. Not fluttering around. Not darting off. Just…present.

Now, I’m not saying Hunts became a hummingbird (because in classic Hunter fashion, he would absolutely choose something dramatic and flashy), but in that moment, it felt like him. It was the feeling that something was showing up for me. That someone still was.

Naturally, I reached for my phone to snap a photo because if you don’t attempt to document a potentially magical moment, did it even happen? The result is a series of blurry, back-focused shots. Obviously, photographing a hummingbird on a phone is only slightly less impossible than explaining to your neighbors why you’re sobbing into your phone at a flower. Beautiful moment? Yes. Pulitzer-worthy photo evidence? Not so much.

I’m not sure that signs always show up like flashing neon lights, but when you slow down and stay open, they’re there. Our dogs have a way of staying close. Whether it’s a familiar sound, a dream that feels too real, or a hummingbird in your garden, our pets have a way of sending signs. You just have to be open to noticing them.

Since initially drafting this, I’ve had some very specific signs follow that I plan to share more about…but I’m hoping to save those for another post soon…

3. Portraits Matter, Especially The Printed Ones.

I’ve said it to clients for years: portraits are more than pretty pictures. They’re emotional anchors. Physical reminders of the love that changed you.

Now I know that on a whole new level. Now I live that truth. And it just hits differently now.

The portraits I have of Hunter—healthy, happy, dignified, and very much himself—are lifelines. I walk by them daily. I talk to them more than I probably should admit. And every time I see his itty bitty front teeth grin or the softness in his eyes, it brings a strange comfort that no phone screen ever could.

There’s something deeply healing about being surrounded by images that remind you your dog lived, not just that he died. That he lived fully, loved wildly, and meant everything.

If you’re wondering whether printed portraits are worth the investment, whether you really need another frame on the wall, I’ll tell you this: when grief hits, you will never, ever regret having them.

4. Love Outlasts the Physical World.

The depth of love we share with our pets doesn’t stop when their heartbeat does. I’ve felt Hunter in familiar places: in the kitchen when I cook a meal intending to share some with him and still instinctively look for him to be standing at my feet in front of the stove; in the silence of early mornings when no one else is awake; and I’ve felt him in the least expected yet always welcomed.

Love lingers. It evolves. It sneaks up on you in quiet moments and swells unexpectedly in loud ones. It exists in the way you still hesitate to vacuum near “his spot.” In the instinct to call his name, forgetting he’s no longer there.

Love doesn’t vanish. It shape-shifts. It becomes the reason you pause at a sunny spot on the floor. The reason you smile at his leash hanging motionless on its hook. The reason you whisper “good morning” before your feet even hit the floor.

And it becomes the reason you keep showing up—for your next dog, for the memories you’ve made, for the love that never really leaves. That’s the thing about loving a dog. It doesn’t stop. It doesn’t disappear. It simply becomes part of who you are.

5. Your Dog is More Than a Chapter, he’s the Whole Story.

I used to think of Hunter as a chapter in my life, but the truth is, he was the story.

He’s in every decision I’ve made for this business. In every product I’ve chosen for its durability and beauty (because, let’s be honest, Hunter checked everything out with that exceptional nose of his and the occasional side-eye). He’s in the way I talk about legacy and heirlooms and the importance of preserving your bond—because I’ve lived it. I am living it.

Hunter wasn’t just a dog who walked beside me. He’s the reason Bark & Gold Photography exists in the way it does. He was the spark that lit everything. The reason I fell so in love with storytelling through portraits. And now, even though he’s physically gone, his story continues. Through the images. Through the love. Through the lessons. None of that will ever change.

If you’re lucky enough to have a dog like that (and I hope you do), take the portraits. Write the captions. Be in the frame. Preserve it all.

Because one day, you’ll need to remember not just that he was here but how he made you feel.

If You’re Grieving Too…

First, I’m so sorry.

Second, I want you to know you’re not alone…not in the heartbreak, not in the quiet moments where you still instinctively reach for them, not in the guilt, or the what-ifs, or the tears that just won’t stop.

I see you. I’m with you. And while I can’t take the ache away, I can offer this: Your grief is valid. Your love was real. And the best way to honor that love is to keep it close…in your heart, in your home, and yes, in your portraits. Grief is heavy, but it’s also sacred.

It means you had something worth mourning. It means your dog mattered. That they still do.

And if you’re like me, you may find yourself clinging to every photograph, every memory, every last bit of fur still stuck to your blanket. Let me just say this: those portraits? They’ll become more valuable with time. They’ll be what you hold onto when everything else feels like it’s slipping away.

So take the photos. Be in the frame. Celebrate the now.

Because one day, it’ll be the only thing you wish you had more of.

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If you’ve been thinking about creating artwork to celebrate your dog’s life—whether they’re still by your side or held tightly in your heart—I’d be honored to help you preserve their legacy. Let’s create something beautiful, together.