Nobody prepares you for the first pet that absolutely wrecks you.
They’re supposed to be “just an animal.”
They are not. They are routine. Comfort. Background noise. Unconditional presence.
That pet saw versions of me no one else did — bad moods, ugly crying, quiet days, chaotic energy. They were there without needing explanations or apologies.
And when they were gone, the house felt wrong. Too quiet. Too empty. Like something essential had been unplugged.
Losing them taught me grief before I had language for it. It taught me that love doesn’t have to be long to be deep. And that sometimes the smallest beings leave the biggest holes.
Tomorrow’s prompt: My first job and why it changed me.
Tumblers and Trash Talk 
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