What Lou the Hound Taught Us About Externalizing Grief
- Katherine Hatch
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
The animal folk have always shown us the way.
If you've ever lived with a dog during a difficult season, you know they have an uncanny ability to sense when something shifts in the household. They feel the tension, the sadness, the weight of what we're carrying—even when we think we're hiding it well.
Our bluetick coonhound pup, Lou (affectionately known as Lou the Monster Hound), recently gave us a masterclass in what it looks like to externalize grief. And honestly? We could all take notes.
When Grief Becomes Visible
Lou doesn't have the language to tell us he's struggling with the changes our family is experiencing right now. He can't sit us down for a heart-to-heart about how the shifts in our home are affecting him. Instead, he shows us.
The living room became his canvas. Pillows torn apart. Stuffing scattered like snow across the floor. A rug pulled up and thoroughly investigated. It wasn't pretty, and it certainly wasn't convenient. But it was honest.
This is what grief looks like when it can't stay inside anymore. This is externalized grief in its rawest form—messy, visible, and impossible to ignore.
The Soul Stare
After his destruction spree, Lou looked at us with those soulful hound eyes. My nine-year-old captured it perfectly: "What's the issue? I'm just showing you what's really going on around here."
There was no shame in his gaze. No apology for making the invisible visible. Just a simple truth: This is how it feels in here.
How often do we wish we could be that honest about our own internal chaos?
The Wisdom of Externalization
In grief counseling and therapy, we talk a lot about the importance of externalizing grief—giving it shape, form, and expression outside of our bodies and minds. We encourage clients to:
Write letters they'll never send
Create art that expresses what words cannot
Move their bodies in ways that release what's stuck
Engage in rituals that honor what's been lost
Sometimes, yes, even break things in safe, intentional ways
Lou didn't need our permission or our therapeutic frameworks. He just knew, instinctively, that what was happening inside needed to come out.
What Our Animals Teach Us
Our companion animals are often our greatest teachers in grief. They don't intellectualize their pain or try to "stay positive" through difficulty. They don't worry about being too much or making others uncomfortable with their feelings.
They simply feel what they feel and express it authentically.
Lou's demolished bed in the living room wasn't a behavior problem to be corrected. It was a communication to be heard. It was his way of saying, "I feel it too. The changes, the uncertainty, the grief of what was and what's shifting. I feel all of it."
An Invitation
If you're in a season of grief or transition right now, perhaps Lou's example offers you permission. Permission to let the mess be messy. Permission to externalize what's happening internally. Permission to show others "what's really going on around here."
Your externalization might not look like torn bedding or pillows (and your family will probably thank you for that). But it might look like:
Finally crying in front of someone you trust
Creating something with your hands that expresses your pain
Saying out loud, "I'm not okay right now"
Letting your home reflect the chaos you feel instead of performing order
Moving your body until the stuck feelings shift
The animal folk have always shown us the way. Maybe it's time we followed their lead.
What are the ways you externalize your grief? How do your animal companions show you what you need to see? We'd love to hear your stories.
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