The Silent Pawprints: Grieving Gollum & the Journey of Pet Bereavement

He came into my life as a month-old ball of fur — unsteady, curious, and entirely sure that I was his person. I still remember that first moment vividly — when he peed on my feet, as if claiming me as his own. I didn’t know then that I was being chosen for one of the deepest loves and hardest goodbyes of my life.

Gollum was with me for 13 and a half years. He arrived when I was still finding my footing in marriage, adulthood, and life itself. He stayed through heartbreak, loneliness, and every small joy that somehow felt fuller because he was there. In many ways, he raised me as much as I raised him.

When his legs began to give way and his body slowed down, I could feel time shifting. Love started to carry a quiet undercurrent of fear. The kind where you know the story is nearing its end, but you keep reading the pages slowly, hoping it might last just a little longer.

The final days were the hardest. His eyes still had light, but his body couldn’t keep up. I cleaned after him, stayed up through the nights, fed him while he lay down, and prayed he wouldn’t be in pain. Love, in those moments, wasn’t soft. It was raw, tiring, and often heavy with helplessness.

And yet, I wouldn’t trade a second of it.

When Gollum passed away this May, the world went quiet. There was no sound of paws on the floor, no familiar breath beside my bed, no eyes following me around the room. Just an ache — a very still kind of ache that moved through everything I did.

They love us simply, and their absence tears through us just as simply.

Over the months, I’ve come to understand that bereavement isn’t about “moving on.” It’s about integrating — carrying their essence in quieter forms. Sometimes in memories, sometimes in the routines you can’t seem to let go of, and sometimes in the sudden tears that come while I see his old bowl or a toy.

Grief has softened its edges now. I no longer wake up to the sound of him, but I often wake up thinking of him. And in those moments, I feel both the loss and the love — two sides of the same bond.

If you’re grieving a pet, know this: you’re not being dramatic or overemotional. You’re mourning a relationship that was unconditional and wordless — the kind of love that rarely exists between humans. It’s okay if it takes time. It’s okay if it never fully leaves.

Because some companions don’t walk beside us forever — they walk through us, leaving pawprints that never fade.