I don’t even know how to explain the feeling.
Every single time I hear a car door shut outside, or an engine rumble in the driveway, my heart instantly jumps. Sometimes it feels like it’s going to leap right out of my chest. Because if there’s even the tiniest possibility that it might be them, then maybe, just maybe, my dog will finally stop waiting.
But it never is.
It never seems to be.
And I’m starting to question if it ever will be.
I guess I should give a little background on how I found myself in this situation.
I’ve had my dog—let’s just call him Toby—for about a year now. He’s a mix of all sorts of adorable things: fluffy ears, mismatched patches of fur that swirl around like soft-colored paint, and those big, pleading eyes that can melt any heart within seconds. And he’s always been a people-oriented pup. It’s like he was born with the ability to wrap his paws around your soul.
A while ago, though, something changed in our household. That “someone” Toby adores just isn’t around anymore. I don’t want to go into all the raw details, but let’s just say it was a person Toby grew extremely attached to—someone who was a regular presence in his life, day after day, always cuddling and playing with him. It could have been a friend, a family member, or something else entirely, but the specifics aren’t really the focus. What matters is how, in Toby’s little canine heart, that person became everything.
And then, one day, they left.
At first, Toby didn’t even realize anything was different. I didn’t either—at least, not fully. I mean, I was conscious of the change, but I didn’t see the scale of the impact on Toby until a few days later.
It started subtly. Toby would hover near the windows, gazing out at every car that inched down the street. You know how dogs do that quick bolt to the door when they hear tires crunching on gravel, or an engine coming to life? He would do that every time, with unstoppable enthusiasm. He’d wag his tail so hard that his entire hindquarters would wiggle like crazy.
He was so sure it was them.
When it wasn’t, his tail would slow down. His ears would droop. And he’d give me this look—like confusion mixed with sadness—that absolutely wrecked me.
There was a week or two when Toby really ramped up the effort to “summon” them. He’d trot over to where they used to sit on the couch, sniff around, circle, then settle right in that spot, curling himself into a little ball. Occasionally, he’d perk up his head whenever he heard a noise from outside—anything that sounded even remotely like a returning car. If a doorbell rang in the distance or I got a knock at my own door, Toby would catapult himself into the hallway, skidding on the floor, nails scratching, just trying to get there as quickly as possible.
It always ended the same way: not them.
Every time, Toby would let out the softest whine—this heartbreaking little moan that only grew more pitiful each time the door revealed someone else. Or no one at all.
I’ve tried to help him adapt. I’ve tried distracting him with new toys, new treats, long walks, extra cuddle sessions—anything I could think of to fill the gap. But it’s like part of him is stuck in that moment of departure, refusing to admit that maybe, just maybe, it’s over. He’s such a hopeful creature, it crushes me to see him get disappointed over and over again.
I’ve tried to talk it out with friends, but they only see the surface. They see a cute dog that has separation anxiety or something along those lines. But I see a little soul that hasn’t come to terms with the person he loved not walking back through that door anymore.
That’s a different level of heartbreak.
And honestly, it’s become my heartbreak, too.
I’ll admit, I wasn’t exactly in the best state when that person left either. I had my own wave of emotions to work through—grief, confusion, maybe even some regret. But Toby’s unrelenting hope is part of what kept me going. He was living proof that love doesn’t just switch off. It endures. Even when it probably shouldn’t, and even when it hurts.
Sometimes I feel guilty for not being able to explain the situation to him. He’s so sensitive, so tuned in to my moods. On days when I’m crying or feeling especially lonely, he’ll come over, nudge me with his nose, and rest his head on my lap. Then he’ll glance at the window, as if telling me, “Let’s watch together. Maybe they’ll come back.”
And each time, I just want to break down all over again.
The nights are sometimes the hardest. If you’ve ever shared a space with a dog who’s lost someone they love, you might know what I’m talking about. Toby used to sleep in his dog bed happily, but now, every so often in the middle of the night, he’ll wander to the front door. I’ll hear his little nails tap-tap-tapping on the floor. Then I’ll hear him whine softly as he waits, as if hoping they’ll walk in at 2 AM.
He doesn’t do it every night. Just often enough that it leaves this gnawing ache in my chest, reminding me that he’s not past it. Reminding me that I’m not past it, either.
I’ve tried giving him extra love in every way possible—feeding him bits of chicken from my dinner plate (probably a bad habit, I know), letting him run free in the park for longer than usual, finding new squeaky toys that catch his attention. But the moment we step back inside, Toby returns to that silent vigil at the window.
It’s almost comedic how he perks up when the mailman arrives. Or how he bounces off the couch when Amazon drops off a package. Each time, his tail is a furious blur, and his ears are at full alert. He stares at the door like his life depends on it. Then the mailman or delivery driver leaves, and Toby slowly retreats, tail tucked down, ears drooping low.
And it kills me every time.
One particularly low moment happened a couple of weeks ago. Toby and I were out on one of our late-night walks—just before bed. He’s usually calm at night, content to sniff around and lazily pick a spot to do his business. But that night, I guess he heard a car that reminded him of theirs.
Because Toby literally broke into a sprint, yanking the leash so hard, I almost lost my grip. He sprinted all the way down the street in the direction of the sound, practically dragging me behind him. When he found nothing at the end of the block—no familiar face, no beloved figure stepping out of the car—he just stood in the middle of the sidewalk, panting like crazy, looking so disoriented.
He looked back at me, and I saw the confusion in his eyes. It was like he was asking, “Where are they? Why can’t I catch them?” I remember kneeling down, hugging him, and feeling tears sting my eyes. It was painful for both of us.
I think the hardest part is that Toby’s unwavering hope sometimes makes me feel a sliver of hope, too. Even though my logical mind knows that door’s not going to open, my heart can’t help but race whenever a car rumbles nearby. I find myself thinking, “What if, by some crazy twist, they actually did come back?” And then, of course, it doesn’t happen.
Every time, Toby and I share that same disappointment, over and over again. It’s like we’re in this loop, reliving the departure day after day. But maybe the part that resonates with me most is seeing how Toby’s love remains so pure. He doesn’t lash out. He doesn’t get angry. He just keeps waiting, tail wagging at the faintest noise of an engine, ears ready to hear the sound he’s been longing for.
It’s both beautiful and heartbreaking.
A few days ago, I found Toby with one of the old shirts that person used to wear. I must’ve missed it in the laundry cycle. Toby had dragged it out from who-knows-where and was lying on it like a treasured blanket. He had his nose buried in it, probably catching a final trace of their scent. I stood there, not knowing what to say or do, because the moment was so tender, so sad, and yet so innocent on his part.
Eventually, I crouched beside him. He looked up at me, gave a small whimper, and just inched closer. I stroked his fur, and it felt like we were silently sharing the same lonely memory.
I’m not sure how Toby’s going to heal, or how long it’ll take. But I do know that things can change.
The last few days, he’s started showing little hints of his old energy again. He still gets that flicker of heartbreak every time a car pulls up, but once it leaves, he’s a little quicker to bounce back. He’ll chase his squeaky toy around the room or bring me a ball, tail swishing like a feather duster. It’s like he’s learning to enjoy life again despite the loss.
And yet, the waiting continues.
I can’t say I don’t still get that pang in my chest every time Toby jumps up at the sound of a vehicle. But I have noticed that sometimes, when it’s obviously not them, Toby will let out a quick sigh, then trot back to me for comfort. As if he’s trying to say, “I’m okay as long as I have you.” And that kind of unconditional acceptance is something I’m learning from him day by day.
So, why am I writing this?
Maybe I just need to get it off my chest. Or maybe I’m hoping someone out there understands this kind of dog-owner bond—where the lines blur between who’s comforting whom. Toby’s not just my pet; he’s my family. And watching your family grieve is never easy, especially when they can’t understand the reasons behind what happened.
I guess I’m sharing this in the hopes that people will see how deeply our animals can feel and how desperately they can wait. It’s a bittersweet reminder that loyalty is a double-edged sword—it brings so much warmth, but it can break your heart when the one you love is gone.
I’m still not entirely sure how this chapter will end. Right now, Toby and I are finding a new normal. He’s clinging to hope like it’s all he knows, and I’m learning from his perseverance. Because in some ways, that hope is what keeps both of us going. It’s what fuels the idea that maybe tomorrow will be different, and that not every unexpected sound of an engine has to end in disappointment.
I’d be lying if I said I haven’t imagined the scenario where the person does come back. The door opens, and Toby loses his mind with happiness. But I also know that might be unrealistic. It’s this swirl of emotions I’m dancing with: heartbreak for Toby, heartbreak for me, but also the slightest glimmer of…something. Some shred of optimism that maybe we’re both meant to grow from this experience, whether or not that door ever opens again for the person we miss.
Even if they never come back, Toby and I still have each other. I’m holding onto that more than ever. Little by little, Toby’s tail has started wagging at me the same way it used to wag at them. That’s progress, right?
And that’s the thing—if there’s any bright side in all of this, it’s that Toby hasn’t lost his core love for life. He might pause at the window every now and then, but he still bursts into excited zoomies when I pick up his leash or crack open the lid of the treat jar. He still follows me around the house, plopping himself down wherever I’m sitting, as if to say, “I’m here, I’m still loving you.”
Sometimes, it’s all I can do to just hold onto that fact. Because it’s those little moments—those mini-victories of canine joy—that remind me the world isn’t always heartbreak and empty driveways. There’s still laughter, squeaky toys, and the warmth of a wagging tail against my leg.
So while our story doesn’t have a full resolution yet, I like to think we’re moving toward a place of acceptance. Or maybe we’re just learning to live side by side with the missing piece. Either way, it’s comforting to know that Toby and I are in this together, healing one day at a time, waiting for someone who might never return, yet finding reasons to smile in all the little things we do share.
It’s definitely not the ending I envisioned.
But maybe there’s a new kind of beginning in it, too.
For anyone who hears a car and thinks it might be the person you miss, only to have that moment of hope snuffed out—believe me, I know what that feels like. Toby and I face it every single day. But I’m learning from his unwavering spirit that hope itself is not a bad thing. It’s something to be cherished, even if it hurts.
Because hope means there’s still love left to give.
And that, in itself, is worth waiting for.