We Will Miss You Forever 💔🕊️ In Loving Memory Morty
I knew something was wrong the moment the house stayed quiet.
Not the peaceful, early-morning kind of quiet. This was the kind that presses against your ears. The kind that makes you listen for a sound you don’t want to admit you’re waiting for.
I opened my eyes and held my breath like a child, listening.
No little nails clicking across the hallway. No soft thump of a tail against the dresser. No warm weight curling into the bend of my knees like it had for years.
Just the ceiling fan turning slowly and the faint hum of the refrigerator down the hall.
“Morthy?” I whispered, my voice rough like I’d been crying in my sleep.
Then I remembered.
My stomach dropped the same way it did yesterday. And the day before that. Like my body hadn’t learned yet. Like my heart was still reaching for him in the dark.
I sat up anyway, the way I always did. Habit has its own grief.
My feet found the cold floor. I padded into the kitchen still half-asleep, still moving on the old map of our mornings. I reached for his bowl without thinking—my hand already twisting the lid of the kibble container, already hearing the little rattle he used to come running for.
But the bowl was gone.
I’d washed it and put it away because seeing it on the floor felt like a bruise I kept pressing.
My fingers stayed on the lid for a moment. I stood there with my hand frozen, staring at the empty space where his bowl used to sit.
And then the tears came, fast and humiliating, like I was a woman who had never learned to hold herself together.
“I’m sorry,” I said out loud to the quiet kitchen. “I didn’t mean to…”
There was no one to answer. No soft eyes looking up at me, confused and forgiving.
The whole house smelled faintly like the blanket the vet had wrapped him in. I’d brought it home because I couldn’t leave anything behind. It was folded on the chair by the window, still holding that mix of antiseptic and something that was purely Morty—warm fur, sun, the tiniest hint of corn chips from his paws. I pressed my face into it yesterday until my nose was damp and my cheeks burned.
Now it just sat there, innocent and unbearable.
I made coffee because I didn’t know what else to do. The machine gurgled and sputtered, and for a second the sound fooled me into thinking it was him drinking water from his dish, the way he used to—noisy and dramatic, like he was making a point. I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the memory hit: his last drink, the way his tongue moved slowly, the way he looked at me afterward like he was tired of trying.
I wrapped both hands around my mug. The heat bit my palms. I stood at the sink and stared out at the backyard where the grass was still damp, shining with a thin morning frost. The sun was pale and shy, like even the day didn’t want to be too bright without him.
Morty loved that yard.
He had a spot under the lilac bush where he used to nose around like a detective. Even when his legs got stiff, even when he couldn’t run the way he used to, he would still waddle out there and sniff with serious concentration, as if the world still had mysteries worth solving.
“Come on, old man,” I used to tease, tugging my cardigan tighter against the cold. “What secrets are you looking for today?”
He would glance back at me with that look—half amused, half offended—like he understood every word and didn’t appreciate my tone.
He always had that look. Like he was wise to me.
It’s strange what you miss. Not just the big things—the walks, the cuddles, the way he would squeeze his body against my shin when I stood still too long. It’s the tiny sounds. The way his collar tag would clink against the water bowl. The sigh he would let out when he settled into his bed, a long, exaggerated exhale, like he’d worked a double shift.
The way he would pause at the doorway before going outside, as if waiting for my permission even though he’d been doing it for years.
The night before we said goodbye, I slept on the living room floor beside him because he couldn’t climb into bed anymore. The rug smelled like lavender cleaner and a little bit of dog, and my shoulder ached from the hard surface. I didn’t care. I just wanted to be close enough to feel him breathing.
Every time he shifted, his fur brushed my hand. It was thinner than it used to be, and his skin felt warmer in some places, cooler in others. Age has its own temperature.
In the dark, I kept thinking about the first time I met him.
He’d been so small. A round little body with ears too big and paws that seemed like they belonged to someone else. The shelter smelled like bleach and wet concrete, and there was barking everywhere, sharp and desperate. I remember being overwhelmed, almost turning around because it felt like stepping into other people’s heartbreak.
But then I saw him.
He wasn’t barking. He was sitting at the front of his kennel like he had an appointment. When I crouched down, he stepped forward slowly, pressed his nose against the bars, and stared straight at me.
Not pleading. Not frantic.
Just… sure.
Like he’d already decided I was his.
“Well,” I whispered, and my throat tightened even then. “Hello, Morty.”
I don’t even know why I called him that. It just came out. The volunteer laughed and said, “He looks like a Morty,” as if it made perfect sense.
I brought him home in a cardboard carrier that smelled like fresh paper and fear. The first night, he cried softly in his little crate. Not loud, not dramatic. Just small, steady whimpers that cut right through me. I got up in my robe and lay on the floor beside the crate, my fingers slipped through the bars.
“It’s okay,” I told him. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”
He sniffed my fingertips. Then he licked them once, slow and careful, like a promise.
That became our life.
Years of little routines. Him following me from room to room like he was assigned to me. Him sitting in the bathroom while I showered, just in case I vanished behind the curtain. Him sleeping with one paw touching my ankle at night. Him barking at the mailman as if it was his sacred duty.
He loved my husband too, of course, but Morty and I had something… specific. A quiet understanding. On the days I tried to hide my sadness—after my mother died, after my sister moved away, after the doctor’s call that changed my year—Morty would simply find me and sit close, leaning his weight into me until I exhaled.
Sometimes I’d bury my face in his neck and whisper things I couldn’t say to anyone else.
He never flinched. Never pulled away.
On his last morning, I knew.
He didn’t eat. He didn’t even lift his head when I rattled the treat jar, and that jar had always been magic. I sat beside him on the floor and stroked his ears, the way he liked—slow circles at the base where the fur was softest.
His eyes met mine. They were still beautiful, still Morty, but there was a faraway look in them. Like he was already standing halfway in another doorway.
“Are you tired?” I asked him, and my voice cracked. “It’s okay if you’re tired.”
My husband knelt beside us. I could hear his breathing, controlled and shaky, like he was trying not to fall apart.
“He’s telling us,” my husband whispered.
I nodded because I couldn’t speak.
The drive to the vet felt too bright. The sun was sharp against the windshield. I held Morty on my lap wrapped in his favorite blanket—the one with the faded paw prints. His body was so light. Too light. Every bump in the road made his head wobble gently, and I kept adjusting my arm to support him, like I could hold him together by sheer will.
At the clinic, the room smelled like disinfectant and something sweet, like artificial vanilla. There was a soft blanket on the floor and a dim lamp that tried too hard to be comforting. The vet spoke quietly, like she was in a church.
I heard words like “kindest choice” and “peace” and “no more pain.”
All I could focus on was the feel of Morty’s fur under my palm, the way his chest rose and fell. Slower than it should have.
I leaned down to his face. His whiskers tickled my cheek.
“I love you,” I told him. “I love you so much. Thank you. Thank you for everything.”
My husband pressed his forehead to Morty’s head and whispered something I couldn’t hear, something private.
When the first injection went in, Morty’s eyes softened. His body loosened like he was letting go of a tight knot he’d been holding for weeks. I kept petting him, the same rhythm, over and over. My thumb traced the spot between his eyes where the fur swirled.
“It’s okay,” I said. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”
His gaze stayed on me, and I swear—this is the part that breaks me—he looked peaceful. Like he was finally resting. Like he trusted me to the end.
And then… he was gone.
There wasn’t a dramatic moment. No big sign. Just a quiet absence that filled the room in an instant.
I felt it before the vet even said, “He’s passed.”
My hands stayed on him like if I lifted them, I would fall into some deep hole.
I kissed the top of his head. His fur was still warm.
“I will miss you forever,” I whispered into him. “Forever, Morty.”
The ride home without him felt wrong in a way I can’t fully explain. The passenger seat was empty. The blanket in my arms held only air. The car smelled like him for the first few minutes, and then it started to fade, and I wanted to scream at the universe for stealing even that.
At home, I opened the door and braced myself out of habit, expecting him to trot in ahead of me. The silence hit like a wall.
No nails on the floor. No snuffle at the threshold. No excited little spin.
Just the house, standing there like it didn’t know what it had lost.
That first night, I kept listening for him. I heard every tiny creak of the settling house, every distant car, every pipe. My body kept waiting for the familiar sound of him changing positions in his bed.
I walked into the living room at midnight and stared at his empty spot. The indentation in his cushion was still there, like the shape of him had been pressed into it.
I sat down and put my hand on it.
Cold.
My chest ached so deeply it felt physical. Like grief had weight.
The days since have been strange. Time moves, but part of me stays stuck in that room at the vet, with my hand on his fur. I still catch myself saving the last bite of chicken while cooking. I still pause at the pet aisle at the store. I still glance toward the window at the exact time he used to bark at squirrels like they were criminals.
And then I remember.
But here’s something else I’ve noticed.
Sometimes, when the sadness loosens its grip for a moment, I can feel the love underneath it. The steady, glowing thing that was always there.
I’ve started talking to him when the house feels too quiet.
“Goodnight, Morty,” I say as I turn off the lights.
And in my mind, I can almost hear his sigh. That old, familiar one. The one that meant, I’m here. I’m safe. We’re okay.
People say there’s a Rainbow Bridge.
A place where our pets run again, young and strong, where their eyes are bright and their bodies don’t hurt. A place where they wait, not in sadness, but in joy, until the day we arrive and they come racing toward us like no time has passed at all.
I don’t know exactly what happens after we die. But I know what love feels like. And I know the bond Morty and I had doesn’t feel like something that can simply vanish.
So when the nights are hard, I picture him there.
Under a sky that never clouds over. Grass soft under his paws. His tail wagging like crazy, the way it did when I came home from even the shortest errand.
And I imagine him turning, looking back over his shoulder, giving me that look—half amused, half certain.
Like he’s saying, Take your time. I’ll be right here.
And someday… we’ll meet again.