Just a simple overseas assignment, some conference thing in Berlin. “All you gotta do is feed him, walk him, maybe scratch behind the ears if he’s being dramatic.” That’s what my brother said when he dropped off Rocco—his three-year-old Doberman with the loyalty of a soldier and the emotional range of a poet.
At first, it was easy. Rocco sniffed around, curled up in his bed, gave me that side-eye like he was silently judging my throw pillow choices. But by day three, something changed.
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He stopped eating.
Wouldn’t touch his food unless I hand-fed him, and even then he barely chewed. He just lay in his bed, head flopped over the side like he’d given up on the whole concept of joy.
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I played his favorite songs. Took him to his usual walking route. Wore my brother’s hoodie hoping the scent would trick him into settling.
Nothing worked.
I thought maybe it was just a phase. Maybe he was missing my brother, his person, and just needed time to adjust. But it went on. Day five, day six—still no improvement. It felt like I was failing him somehow. I’d never had a dog before, and certainly not one this emotionally complex.
I kept trying. Each day, I’d prepare his food, attempt the walks, sit with him on the couch. I’d talk to him, even though I knew he wasn’t really listening. “Come on, Rocco,” I’d say, “We gotta eat something today.” But he just looked at me—those deep brown eyes, sadder every day—and let out a small sigh before curling into an even tighter ball.
By day ten, I was worried. I knew he needed to eat, but I couldn’t figure out how to get him to do it. I called my brother, left him several messages, but he didn’t pick up. “Maybe he’s busy with work,” I thought, but that didn’t make me feel any better. I needed advice, I needed help. What if something was wrong with him? What if he was sick and I didn’t know?
Frustrated and desperate, I decided to take him to the vet. The moment I stepped into the clinic, Rocco stood up straight—almost like he was relieved to be somewhere else, as if he knew something was about to happen. The vet took one look at him and raised an eyebrow.
“Has anything unusual happened since you started watching him?” she asked, gently prodding Rocco to check his vitals.
“Well,” I began, shifting uneasily, “He’s been acting a little strange. He won’t eat, won’t move around much. I thought maybe he was just missing my brother, but… I don’t know. It’s been over a week, and he still won’t settle.”
The vet nodded thoughtfully, scribbling down notes. “It’s possible that Rocco’s emotional distress is manifesting physically. Sometimes dogs have such a deep bond with their owners that they can go into a kind of depression if separated. It’s similar to separation anxiety, but for some dogs, it’s much more intense.”
I blinked. “You’re saying he’s sad because my brother’s gone?” I asked incredulously.
“Exactly,” she replied, with a small, empathetic smile. “Dogs are incredibly intuitive. They don’t just miss their owners—they feel it, deep down. And if he’s very close to your brother, it can cause a significant emotional reaction.”
I felt a weight in my chest. I had no idea it could be this serious. I always thought dogs were just happy-go-lucky creatures who rolled with the punches. I hadn’t considered that Rocco might be grieving.
“Can we do anything to help him?” I asked, voice tinged with guilt. I felt like I should have known this, like I should’ve been more aware.
“We’ll get him on some medication to help with the anxiety, and I’d recommend continuing to give him his routine. You may want to try engaging with him more directly, too. Dogs are pack animals, and when their pack is disrupted, they need a little reassurance.”
I left the vet’s office feeling a little less anxious, but still overwhelmed. This was way more complicated than I had ever imagined. I was responsible for Rocco’s well-being for the next few weeks, and it seemed like I wasn’t doing enough.
Over the next few days, I followed the vet’s instructions. I made sure to keep Rocco’s routine as close to normal as possible, taking him on walks at the same times, playing his favorite games, and even sitting with him at night watching TV like I knew my brother would. The vet had also prescribed some calming medication for Rocco, which I started giving him.
It wasn’t immediate, but slowly, Rocco began to improve. He ate more, started wagging his tail again, and even stood up to greet me when I came home, although there was still that flicker of sadness in his eyes. He was getting better, but he wasn’t quite himself yet.
One afternoon, a week into my efforts, I got a message from my brother. He had finally called back.
“Hey, I just got your messages. What’s going on with Rocco?” he asked, his voice casual, but I could hear the edge of concern underneath.
“I… I think he’s depressed. The vet says he’s struggling with being separated from you for so long,” I said, holding the phone close to my ear.
There was silence on the other end for a moment. Then, my brother sighed. “I had a feeling. He’s always been like that. I just didn’t think it would affect him this much. You know, we’ve been through a lot together. I don’t know if I’ve ever really left him for this long.”
I could hear the regret in his voice, and for the first time since I’d started looking after Rocco, I realized something. My brother wasn’t just a casual pet owner. He really was Rocco’s person, and I had been trying to fill shoes that I just wasn’t capable of filling.
“I’m doing everything I can,” I said softly, “but I don’t know if it’s enough. I think he needs you, and he won’t accept me as a substitute.”
“I know,” my brother said, voice full of understanding. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left him for so long without preparing him. He’s my responsibility, and I should have made sure you were prepared, too.”
I blinked in surprise. My brother—apologizing? That wasn’t something I heard often. It hit me then that maybe I had been too focused on how difficult it was for me. Rocco was struggling, but so was my brother, who had been away from his loyal companion.
“That’s okay,” I said quietly. “We’re both doing the best we can.”
“I’ll be home soon,” he promised. “I’m cutting the trip short. I’ll be there before the weekend. Make sure Rocco knows I’m coming home.”
And so, I did. I spoke to Rocco like he could understand every word, telling him that my brother would be home soon. It wasn’t an instant fix, but there was a noticeable shift. Rocco perked up when I said his name in a hopeful tone, his eyes softening just a bit. He was still sad, but there was a flicker of recognition in him, as if he was finally holding on to the idea that his person would be back.
When my brother returned a few days later, I swear Rocco ran to the door the moment he heard his voice. The transformation was almost magical. Rocco wagged his tail so vigorously, I thought it might fall off. He was bouncing around, back to his old self. It was clear: Rocco’s happiness wasn’t about his food or his walks—it was about being with the person he trusted most.
After everything, I couldn’t help but feel a little silly for thinking I could take my brother’s place. I’d been trying to force Rocco into a situation that wasn’t right for him, all because I wanted to be the one to fix it. The lesson, however, was clear: sometimes, love and loyalty come with their own unique connections that no one else can replicate.
From then on, I knew my role in Rocco’s life wasn’t to replace my brother—but to give him a bridge during a tough time. I could never replace the bond they shared, but I could respect it and help make the transition easier.
So, when things feel too difficult, remember: sometimes the best thing we can do is let others take the lead, and recognize when we need to step back.
Please share this with anyone who might be struggling with similar situations—whether it’s with pets, family, or personal struggles. Sometimes, understanding our limits can make all the difference.
