The hardest drive home with only one collarI still remember the exact moment the vet handed it back to me
- emmaleighdean
- Jan 18
- 3 min read
The hardest drive home with only one collarI still remember the exact moment the vet handed it back to me.
She’d already clipped it off gently, the tags jingling one last time like they always did when he shook himself after a walk. The leather was still warm from his neck. I took it without really looking, mumbled something like “thank you,” and walked out through the side door they use for this kind of thing—the one that avoids the waiting room full of wagging tails and excited puppies.
The car park was quiet. Mid-afternoon in January, grey sky pressing down, the kind of cold that seeps straight into your bones. I opened the passenger door first out of habit, ready to lift him in like I’d done a thousand times. Then I stopped. No dog. Just the empty blanket I’d spread across the back seat that morning, still creased where his weight had been.
I slid into the driver’s seat, shut the door, and sat there for what felt like forever. The collar rested in my lap like a stone. Heavy. Useless now. I traced the buckle with my thumb—the same one he’d worn since he was a gangly puppy who chewed everything in sight. The little brass tag still read his name, my phone number, “If found please call.” As if anyone could find him now
The engine started eventually. I don’t remember turning the key. I just remember pulling out onto the road, indicator clicking too loudly in the silence. No radio. No podcast. Just the hum of tyres on wet tarmac and my own ragged breathing.
Every red light felt personal. I stared at the one in front of me, willing it to stay red forever so I wouldn’t have to keep moving toward a house that was already wrong.
A woman crossed with her spaniel on a lead—bright red coat, tail going like a metronome. I looked away so fast my neck hurt.
Halfway home the tears came properly, the kind that blur everything and make you gasp. I pulled into a lay-by because I couldn’t see the road anymore. Sat there gripping the wheel, forehead against it, the collar still in my lap. I talked to him out loud. Told him I was sorry it hurt at the end even though the vet said it wouldn’t. Told him the house would be too quiet without his nails clicking on the laminate. Told him I loved him more than I ever said, which was true and also the worst part.
People talk about the moment of goodbye being the hardest. The injection, the last breath, the vet’s quiet “He’s gone.” But for me, it wasn’t. It was this drive. The longest twenty-five minutes of my life stretched into something endless. The car felt huge without him sprawled across the back, head on the armrest, warm breath on my neck at traffic lights. Every roundabout, every turn toward home, pulled the ache tighter.
When I finally turned into the driveway, the porch light was on like always. I sat in the car a bit longer, engine off, listening to the ticks as it cooled. Then I picked up the collar, looped it around my wrist like a bracelet, and went inside
The house smelled of him—wet fur from yesterday’s rain walk, the faint yeasty smell of his paws, the kong still half-stuffed on the kitchen floor. His bed was untouched. Bowl still full. I didn’t touch any of it. Just stood in the hallway holding the collar, feeling the tags press into my palm.
I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Long enough for the light to fade outside. Eventually I hung the collar on the hook by the door where his lead still dangled. It looked wrong—too solitary. Too final.
They say time helps. They’re not wrong, but they’re not entirely right either. The pain doesn’t vanish; it changes shape. Some days it’s sharp, some days it’s just a dull weight in the chest. But that drive? That stays exactly as it was. A quiet, endless stretch of road where the world kept moving and I didn’t.
If you’re reading this because you just made that drive too, I’m so sorry. You’re not alone in how brutal it feels. The empty collar in your hand is proof of how much love there was. Hold it gently. Let the tears come. Talk to them if you need to. They’re still listening, I think.
And when you’re ready, maybe take that collar for one last walk. Not to forget—but to remember.
For anyone in the UK needing support: Blue Cross Pet Bereavement Support Line – 0800 096 6606, or the wonderful folks at Rainbow Bridge forums and groups. You don’t have to carry this alone.)
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