No One Warns You What Divorce Does To The Family Dog

When I left, I didn't take much. Some clothes for Joey and me. My toothbrush, my makeup. And Sundae, tail wagging, clueless to the life we were leaving behind.

I thought maybe there would be a conversation later — some objection, some claim to her. But there wasn't. Instead, when I returned the next day to gather more of my things, her bed, her bowls, and her toys were already stacked at the door like garbage waiting for pickup.

As if she didn't matter. As if she hadn't been part of our family. As if she had never been his. After that, we saw him only during drop-offs for our son. Each time, Sundae would force her head through the open car window, her whole body straining toward him, tail wild with recognition, excitement, and desperation for even the smallest sign that he still saw her, knew her, loved her.

But he never looked at her. Never said her name. Never once asked how she was doing.

In mediation last fall, while discussing mutual property, the lawyer asked if we had any pets.

My husband quickly blurted out, "No."

My jaw dropped. My stomach turned. No? We'd had Sundae for five years. I sat there blinking. Confused. Hurt. Enraged.

"She has a dog," he said.

But she wasn't just my dog. She was ours. And while I was grieving the end of my marriage, I found myself grieving for Sundae, too. Worried for her. Because there had been so much love once, and I knew she had to be longing for it... just as I was.

All the photos of him curled up on the floor beside her. The videos of her waiting for him at the door as soon as his truck pulled in the driveway. His Facebook posts on National Dog Day. That's what made it so much harder to make sense of — the way he could so easily pretend she didn't exist. How fast he was willing to erase her, too.

I didn't think I'd cry for Sundae during my divorce. I cried for my son, of course, for myself, for the version of my life I thought I was building. But I wasn't prepared for the guilt that I couldn't protect her from it, too.

Sundae had been there for every slammed door, every heavy silence. She'd watched me unravel, her head tilting slightly, licking tears from my cheeks. After we moved in with my parents, she could often be found on the chair in front of the picture window, staring out into the world. Watching. Waiting. Hoping. Or maybe I was just projecting.

I spoke to Olivia Dreizen Howell, co-founder and CEO of Fresh Starts Registry, a platform designed to support people through big life changes like divorce. Olivia reminded me that pets don't just observe, they feel. "They need to feel your presence — that they're not alone," she says. "They want to see that you're around and that you're going to stay."

This made me tear up. Because while I didn't always know how to show up for myself during that time, I tried like hell to show up for Sundae. I'd get up from my desk mid-workday to wrap her in extra snuggles. I started speaking to her more softly, offering explanations she'd never understand.

I also spoke to Dr. Andrea Tu, DVM, a veterinary behaviorist, who pointed out how sensitive and intuitive dogs are — but that they can't fully grasp the complexities of adult emotions.

"With most divorces, there's a lot of fighting and a lot of arguing ahead of time, and these dogs don't know what's going on. All they know is that emotions are heightened; somebody's mad at somebody. Are they mad at me?"

Dr. Tu explained that dogs rely heavily on routine and consistency. Even the smallest shifts — a new walk route, a missing voice, a different morning pattern — can unsettle them. She told me Sundae might be adjusting on the outside, but that doesn't mean the change didn't impact her.

"They have the ability to remember things, remember people," she tells me.

And those early drop-offs when Sundae stretched for him through the car window, trembling with recognition? Dr. Tu called it exactly what it was: grief. And that broke me. Because I kept wondering if Sundae was still hoping he'd come back. Still waiting. Still hurting.

Dr. Tu explained that when one parent won't engage, sometimes it's less painful for the dog if they just disappear completely because inconsistency can feel worse than absence. And I got that. I'd made the same choice — to keep my distance, to only see him when I had to. Not because of anything other than it hurt too much to be near someone who was no longer mine. But Sundae, of course, couldn't make that choice. She was still trying to understand why everything had changed.

We were both learning how to let go.

"I think people often don't realize how much their animals become a sense of security to them during these life transitions," Olivia tells me. "You can take the opportunity to form a new bond with your animal, which is beautiful, but it's definitely hard."

It took time for my soon-to-be ex-husband. At first, it seemed it was easier for him to shut her out, the way he shut out everything that we had. Maybe it was too painful. Maybe pretending she wasn't his anymore, because I wasn't, felt easier than acknowledging what he'd lost.

But slowly, he started reaching for her again. A small pat at a drop-off. A "Hello, pup," when she lunged toward him. And when I had to go out of town a month ago for work, with no one else to look after her, he took her without hesitation.

She spent the night comfortably in the home we all once shared. And I wonder if she remembered it: if the smells, the sounds, the creaks in the floorboards made her body relax in the way nostalgia can sometimes do.

I don't know what he felt when he saw her sleeping there, in the bed we all used to share at night. But I like to think he missed her, too. Maybe he missed all of it. Maybe that's why it hurt so much to look at her, think of her, in the beginning.

I've heard people call divorce a rebirth. A shedding. A homecoming to yourself. But no one told me it would also require helping my dog rebuild, too. Helping her relearn which voices meant comfort. Which footsteps still came. Which home was now hers. And that I was still here, and that I always would be.

It'll be a year in June since Sundae and I left our home. Not too long ago, I slipped off her collar, rubbed my fingers over the faded silver tag — the one etched with both our phone numbers. "Mom and Dad," it read. I held it for a moment, leaned into her face, then whispered, "It's time to get you a new tag, girly."