I have never, ever in my life experienced something like this—a spiritual sign so intimate it stopped me in my tracks.
Last Friday, I made the difficult decision to put Neddy—Ned, my faithful friend—down. It was a moment laced with sorrow and uncertainty. I’ve been swirling in guilt ever since. Was it too soon? Did I misjudge his pain? Did he—and more terrifyingly—was he mad at me? Did ending it punctuate a punishment rather than a release?
In the quiet of the evening, I broke down and prayed. I just asked: Ned, if you can—give me a sign you’re okay. That’s all. No spectacle. No lightning bolt. Just a whisper.
Who was Ned?
He wasn’t just a dog. He was a radiant bundle of joy—my constant. On our drives to the Huntington Bank drive-thru, he’d lean into me, heart pounding, eyes sparkling with anticipation—for the Milk Bones they always handed out. He learned the ritual: the bank window, his eager posture, the buttery treat pressed into his paw. And me behind the wheel, smiling as he sat in my lap, a little overexcited, always grateful, always trusting.
That bond is so vivid in my mind now—the routine, the snacks, the warmth of his body curled beside me. Ned was simple, but deeply dear.
The Weight of Saying Goodbye
People say grief is heavy, but they don’t always say how it weighs. On the first night without him, the silence wasn’t emptiness—it was thick, palpable. I lay awake, imagining him pacing, hoping I was wrong—that maybe he was still alive somewhere, just waiting for me. And I wondered, did I take that hope away too soon?
That’s why I prayed, half in desperation, half in faith. I needed something—anything—that would tell me I had done the right thing.
Then it happened.
I can’t say whether it was coincidence or something deeper. I just know it was real. In the middle of the night, as I lay drifting between tears and slumber, I felt it softly: a warm pressure on my chest, like tiny paws leaning in. A memory washed in—Ned reclining against me in the car, waiting for his bone. That’s all. A memory, but also a presence.
My chest ached, tears spilled, and yet I felt lighter. It felt like a message: I’m okay. I’m so grateful. Thank you. Like he was leaning in once more, reminding me: I was loved. And I had loved him.
Why this matters.
I’ve never labeled myself spiritual. I’ve never chased omens or counted signs. But sometimes, grief opens a window when all else breaks down. And the presence you thought was gone can find its way back—not in pictures or words, but in a breath, a memory, a warm pulse in your heart.
What I learned: