Three years.
To some people, that might not sound like a long time. But when those three years are filled with tiny paws on your shoulder, little chirps from across the room, and a fluffy tail flicking every time he got excited — it was a whole lifetime of love.
He wasn’t “just a squirrel.”
He was my shadow. My little sidekick. My tiny, wild-hearted best friend.
He trusted me. And if you’ve ever earned the trust of an animal that’s naturally skittish and cautious, you know how special that is. He chose me every single day — climbing into my hands, curling up near me, looking at me like I was his safe place. That kind of bond changes you.
The Quiet Is the Hardest Part
The house feels different now.
No random scratching sounds.
No tiny feet darting across the floor.
No surprise stashes of food hidden in places I wouldn’t discover for weeks.
It’s wild how something so small can leave such a huge silence behind.
Grief doesn’t measure size.
It doesn’t care if it was a dog, a cat, or a little squirrel most people never got to meet. Love is love. And when you lose something you’ve poured your heart into for three years, it hurts deeply.
What He Taught Me
He taught me patience.
He taught me gentleness.
He taught me how to slow down and appreciate small, simple moments.
He showed me that even the tiniest creatures can have the biggest personalities — stubborn, curious, mischievous, affectionate.
And he reminded me that love doesn’t have to be loud to be powerful.
Carrying Him With Me
I don’t think we ever really “get over” losing a pet. We just learn to carry them differently. In memories. In habits. In the way we still glance at their favorite spot without thinking.
For three years, I was his safe place.
And for three years, he was mine.
That kind of love doesn’t disappear — it just changes form.
