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When a dog dies, something inside you
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breaks. Not just your heart, but your
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sense of home. Psychology says the bond
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between a human and their dog isn't just
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emotional, it's biological. Your brain
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releases oxytocin every time he wags his
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tail, every time his paws tap against
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the floor when you walk in. So when that
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sound disappears, your body still waits
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for it. You still hear him at night.
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Still move your hand, expecting to feel
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his fur. That's not imagination. It's
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memory wired deep into your nervous
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system. Psychologists call it attachment
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imprinting. Your dog becomes part of how
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your brain defines safety. So when he's
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gone, your body reacts the same way it
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would if you lost a family member,
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because to your brain, you did. That's
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why the house feels too quiet. Why your
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chest feels heavy in places words can't
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reach. But psychology also says grief is
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love that has nowhere to go. And every
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tear, every memory, every ache is proof
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that you were lucky enough to be loved
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unconditionally by something that never
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needed words to say it. Because he
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wasn't just your dog.