Grieving What Will Never Return

Grief does not only belong to people.

Sometimes grief has four paws and a wagging tail. Sometimes it has deep roots that have held the earth together for generations. Sometimes it grows slowly, almost unnoticed, until one day we realize that what we loved is gone forever.

After more than nine years, I said goodbye to my dog, Tor, my furry soulmate. The house became quieter. The routines we had shared disappeared overnight. Anyone who has loved a dog understands that they are never “just a pet.” They become part of our lives, our identity, and our hearts.

My two other dogs were searching for her.

They paused at the places where she used to sleep. They looked toward the door as if expecting her to walk back inside. They waited. They wondered. They grieved.

Watching them reminded me that grief does not belong only to people. It belongs to every living being capable of forming a bond.

Perhaps they cannot understand death the way humans do, but they understand absence. They know someone they loved is missing.

Love leaves an emptiness when it is gone.

And that emptiness is not limited to our homes.

At the same time, I have been watching another loss unfold.

Here on Bonaire, nature is disappearing piece by piece. Trees that have stood for decades are cut down. Cacti that took generations to grow are destroyed. Habitats disappear, and with them disappear birds, insects, shade, beauty, and history.

Bonaire is known for its unique natural beauty. Its landscapes, trees, cacti, reefs, and wildlife are not just scenery. They are part of the island’s identity. They carry history. They connect generations. They create the feeling of place that cannot be recreated once it is gone.

These losses feel strangely similar.

Neither my dog nor those old trees can be replaced. A new puppy is not Tor. A newly planted sapling is not the tree that survived droughts and decades of blazing Caribbean sun. Time matters. History matters. Life matters.

It raises a painful question:

What is the meaning of calling trees and cacti “protected” if no one protects them?

A law without enforcement is little more than words on paper. Declaring a species protected should mean something. It should mean that when a protected tree is destroyed, there are consequences. It should mean that development respects nature instead of treating it as an inconvenience. It should mean that future generations inherit the same natural beauty that previous generations knew.

Otherwise, the word protected becomes an empty promise.

Every tree that disappears changes Bonaire forever. Every cactus that is destroyed removes something unique that took decades—sometimes much longer—to become what it was. These are not objects that can simply be replaced. They are living witnesses to the island’s history.

People often say that progress requires sacrifice.

But progress without respect for nature is not progress at all. It is loss disguised as development.

Perhaps the greatest sadness is not only what we have already lost, but what we continue to lose while knowing it could have been prevented.

My dog’s life taught me something that extends far beyond the walls of my home. We do not truly own another living being. We are entrusted with their care for a short and precious time. The same is true of the trees, cacti, birds, reefs, and all the living things that make Bonaire unique.

We are not owners.

We are caretakers.

And caretakers have a responsibility.

Nature cannot speak in our language. It cannot stand before a court or write a letter asking to survive. It depends on people who care enough to speak for it before silence becomes permanent.

If we truly believe that Bonaire’s protected trees and cacti are worth saving, then protection must be more than words written in legislation. It must become a commitment that is enforced, respected, and defended—not only for ourselves, but for those who will walk this island after we are gone.

My two dogs still look for the companion who will never come home.

I will miss Tor every single day.

And Bonaire continues to lose pieces of itself that will never return.

Different losses, perhaps, but born from the same truth: when something irreplaceable disappears, we are left carrying the memories of what once filled our lives.

We cannot bring back the dog who crossed the Rainbow Bridge. We cannot restore a century-old tree or cactus once it has been cut down. But we can choose what kind of caretakers we will be—for the companions who share our homes and for the natural world that is our larger home.

Because grief is not only the price we pay for love.

It is also a reminder of what is still worth protecting.

For every tree that is cut down, every cactus destroyed without consequence, and every faithful companion who leaves us always too soon, there remains the same question:

Did we love deeply enough to protect what mattered while we still could?

May we never become so accustomed to loss that we stop grieving.

For it is our grief that reminds us we have loved deeply.

And it is our love that gives us the responsibility to protect what still remains.

In memory of Tor, my Guardian Angel.
With hope for the future of Bonaire’s natural heritage.

HELP US TO SAVE PLANTATION BOLIVIA FROM DESTRUCTION