Carving My Heart Into Wood: The Portrait That Brought My Dog Back to Life

You know that silence. The one that isn’t peaceful, but hollow. It follows you from room to room after a beloved pet passes, echoing in the spaces they used to fill. After my first husky, Loki, left this world, I was drowning in that silence. I was a man who worked with wood, yet I felt completely powerless. How do you sculpt an absence?

My tools—the chisels, the gouges, the mallet—sat untouched for weeks. They were just dead weight. Until one morning, in a fit of raw grief, I grabbed a rough block of black walnut from my stack. I didn’t have a plan. I didn’t have a sketch. I just had a desperate need to feel close to him again.

This wasn’t art. It was archaeology.

I wasn’t carving a new image; I was excavating a memory from the grain. Every pass of the chisel wasn’t about shaping wood, but about remembering. The curve of his alert ear came first. My hands remembered how it would twitch at the sound of a squirrel. Then, the slope of his forehead, where I’d rest my chin when I needed comfort. Each cut was a conversation.

· The deep-set eyes: I spent three days on these alone, using a tiny spoon gouge to capture that knowing, ice-blue gaze that saw straight through my soul. I polished them to a soft gleam, so they’d catch the light just like his did in the sun.

· The Agouti fur: His wolf-like markings weren’t painted. They’re the natural, swirling grain of the walnut itself. I chose this wood specifically because its chaotic, beautiful patterns mirrored his wild spirit. I sanded for hours, not to make it smooth, but to make it soft to the touch, just like burying your fingers in his thick coat.

· The slight, mischievous tilt of the head: This was the final, crucial detail. It’s the look he’d give me right before he’d do something brilliantly naughty. Capturing that wasn’t about technique; it was about honoring his true essence—not just a dog, but Loki, the god of joyful mischief.

I didn’t carve a generic husky. I carved our history. I carved the long hikes, the quiet nights, the stubborn loyalty, and the boundless love into a single, tangible piece of wood.

When I finally put the mallet down and brushed away the dust, the most incredible thing happened. The silence broke.

I didn’t see a sculpture. I saw him. The portrait hadn’t captured his likeness; it had captured his spirit. The hollow feeling in my chest was filled, not with sorrow, but with a profound, warm presence. It was no longer a block of wood on my bench. It was a vessel. My love for him, and his spirit, had a home again.

This portrait now sits in the living room, where he loved to be. And Freya, Valkyrie, and Hella will often walk over, sniff it gently, and lie down beside it. They sense it, too.

Here is what the grain taught me about grief: We cannot hold on to those we lose. But we can create.

We can take our love—the sharp,painful, beautiful force of it—and channel it into something new. Something solid. Something real.

For me, it was wood and a memory. For you, it might be a poem, a garden, a donated blanket to a shelter in their name, or a simple story you tell over and over.

Don’t just mourn the space they left behind. Build something beautiful in it.

That is how we keep them with us. That is how we turn the deafening silence back into a song.

\- Thane Rivers

Loki’s Legacy Fund: If this story moved you, consider helping another animal find their forever love.