He said it would only be for two weeks.
Just a short overseas conference in Berlin. “All you have to do is feed him, walk him, maybe scratch behind the ears if he’s being dramatic,” my brother said when he dropped off Rocco—his three-year-old Doberman with the loyalty of a soldier and the soul of a poet.
At first, things were fine. Rocco explored the house, settled into his bed, and gave me that classic side-eye like he was silently judging my decor. But by day three, everything changed.
He stopped eating.
He wouldn’t touch his food unless I hand-fed him, and even then, barely chewed. He just lay there, head hanging off the bed, as if joy had abandoned him.
I played his favorite songs, took him on his usual walks, even wore my brother’s hoodie hoping the familiar scent would soothe him.
Nothing helped.
I thought maybe it was just a phase, that he missed my brother and needed time. But days passed—day five, six, and still no improvement. I felt helpless. I’d never had a dog before, especially one so emotionally complex.
I kept trying—preparing his meals, walking him, sitting with him on the couch, talking to him even if he didn’t seem to listen. “Come on, Rocco,” I’d say. “We need to eat today.” But all I got was a sad, tired look and a small sigh before he curled up tighter.
By day ten, I was seriously worried. I called my brother multiple times but got no answer. Maybe he was busy, but I needed guidance. Was Rocco sick? Was I missing something?
Desperate, I took him to the vet. The moment we entered, Rocco stood straighter, almost relieved. The vet checked him over and asked gently about any unusual behavior.
I explained his refusal to eat and move, my fears that he was just missing my brother.
The vet nodded thoughtfully. “Rocco’s emotional distress is showing physically. Dogs deeply bonded with their owners can experience something like depression when separated. It’s more intense than typical separation anxiety.”
I was stunned. “You’re saying he’s sad because my brother’s gone?”
“Exactly,” she said softly. “Dogs don’t just miss their people—they feel it deeply.”
I felt a heavy weight. I’d never realized how serious this could be. Dogs aren’t just carefree companions—they grieve too.
“Can we help him?” I asked, feeling guilty.
“We’ll start some anxiety meds and keep his routine consistent. Engage with him more—dogs are pack animals. When their pack is disrupted, they need reassurance.”
I left the vet feeling a bit more hopeful but still overwhelmed. Caring for Rocco was more than I’d expected.
Over the next days, I stuck to the vet’s advice—same walks, favorite games, evenings sitting with him watching TV, and the medication.
Gradually, Rocco improved. He ate more, wagged his tail, and greeted me when I came home. Though still sad, there was a flicker of life returning.
Then, a week in, my brother finally called back.
“Hey, I got your messages. What’s going on with Rocco?” he asked, concern barely hidden.
“I think he’s depressed. The vet says he’s struggling with being away from you,” I explained.
There was a pause. Then my brother sighed. “I had a feeling. He’s always been like that. We’ve been through a lot together. I don’t think I’ve ever been away this long.”
Hearing his regret made me realize something: my brother wasn’t just an owner—he was Rocco’s person. I’d been trying to fill shoes I couldn’t.
“I’m doing everything I can,” I said softly, “but I don’t think it’s enough. He needs you, and he won’t accept me as a replacement.”
“I know,” my brother replied, understanding in his voice. “I should’ve prepared him better before leaving. He’s my responsibility.”
His apology surprised me. I’d been so focused on my struggles, I forgot my brother was hurting too.
“That’s okay,” I said. “We’re both doing the best we can.”
“I’m coming home early,” he promised. “Before the weekend. Make sure Rocco knows.”
I talked to Rocco, telling him his person was on the way. It wasn’t an instant fix, but he perked up, his eyes softening—a spark of hope.
When my brother returned, Rocco ran to the door the second he heard his voice. Tail wagging wildly, bouncing around like himself again. It was clear—Rocco’s happiness wasn’t about food or walks. It was about being with the person he trusted most.
After all this, I felt a little silly for thinking I could replace my brother. Some bonds are unique and can’t be replicated. My role was never to replace him, but to be a bridge during a hard time.
When things feel too tough, sometimes the best thing we can do is step back, let others lead, and recognize our limits.
If you know anyone struggling with similar challenges—whether with pets, family, or life—please share this. Understanding our boundaries can make all the difference.