I cried over a dog I never met, and that grief was real
It started with a ‘like’ and ended in tears
I never imagined a stranger’s dog could make me cry. But I did.
Not a few sniffles. I mean, actual tears. Nose-running, ugly crying. Over a husky named Kita who lived somewhere in the US and who I’d only ever known through Instagram squares and cheerful reels.
Kita and her fur siblings, Tikanni and Tehya, were a daily dose of joy. Howl sessions, ridiculous sleeping positions, food reviews delivered with side-eye and sass—they were a furry shot of dopamine that popped up on my feed every morning. Till one day, her human posted a reel: Kita had crossed the rainbow bridge.
First came the waterworks. Then the shame. Seriously? I was crying over someone else’s dog on the internet? Was I okay? I hadn’t cried this hard during the lockdown, when people were dying around me. Something about that didn’t sit right. And yet, the grief was real. Heavy, hollow, and weirdly private. I wasn’t sure what to do with it—so, I spiralled into research (occupational hazard).
Turns out, I had a case of parasocial grief. It’s a thing. You’ve probably felt it too.
Reel, but still real
You know those one-sided relationships we form with celebrities, influencers and even pets? The kind where they have no idea you exist, but you feel like you know them? That’s called a parasocial relationship.
The term was first coined in the 1950s (yes, really) to describe fans’ connections with TV personalities. But in today’s internet era, it’s evolved to where a dog on Instagram might feel more familiar than your actual neighbours. “These bonds might seem trivial until something happens—an announcement, a sign-off, or a goodbye post (like in Kita’s case). Suddenly, you’re grieving like you’ve lost someone from your own world,” says Anjali Sharma, clinical psychologist, who runs a private practice in Lucknow.
I’ve felt it more than once lately. When Matthew Perry (aka Chandler Bing) passed away last year, I, like fans across the globe, mourned like l’d lost a F.R.I.E.N.D. Even MS Dhoni’s impending retirement tugs at my heart in ways I didn’t expect.
I also know I’m not alone. When Liam Payne, former member of the band One Direction, died after falling from a hotel balcony in Buenos Aires, Saadia Khan, 27, a marketing professional from Noida, was left deeply shaken. “The band’s songs got me through some of the happiest and hardest phases of my life,” she says. “With Payne gone, it felt like I’d lost a part of myself too.”
Even fictional losses can hit hard. “The Red Wedding broke my heart,” says Vaidehi Shah, 22, a media student based in Mumbai. “I wept for an hour after that episode. And to this day, I fast-forward the part where Robb and Catelyn Stark are betrayed every single time I rewatch Game of Thrones.”
“The human brain craves connection. It responds intensely to faces, voices, emotions, even through screens,” says Dr Santosh Bangar, senior consultant psychiatrist at Gleneagles Hospital, Mumbai. “With repeated exposure, the brain releases feel-good chemicals like oxytocin, dopamine, and endorphins. Over time, it begins treating these digital presences like real relationships, complete with emotional bonds.”
Why our brains can’t just ‘log off’
This is especially true in the digital age, where the line between public figures and personal connection is almost non-existent. We no longer just consume content—we interact, comment, save and share. It’s intimacy by algorithm. So, when that presence disappears, our emotions don’t know how to simply ‘log off’.
Also, grief doesn’t care if the relationship was real or virtual (like the connections that deepened virtually during the pandemic). “The brain forms emotional bonds based on familiarity and emotional engagement,” says Sharma. Translation: if you’ve followed someone—or something—for years, laughed at their posts, rooted for their recovery, watched their daily antics… that’s a real emotional investment. And your brain treats it like one.
This connection becomes even more powerful when we’re vulnerable—during a pandemic, burnout, or when real life feels overwhelming. That husky who howls every day on your feed? She’s not just a cute distraction. She’s comfort, consistency, even joy. A digital support animal, if you will.
When that bond breaks—even if it was always one-sided—the grief is real. “Grief is the brain’s natural response to losing an emotional connection, even if that connection was digital,” says Dr Bangar. “When someone online becomes part of your emotional landscape, their absence can feel like a personal loss. The brain processes this through sadness, confusion, and sometimes even anger. It’s completely human to mourn someone who touched your heart, even if you never met them in person.”
Grief needs a witness—even online
I wasn’t alone in my experience. Days after Kita passed, I found myself scrolling through the comments on the post. People from all over the world were sharing stories, crying, writing things like, “I feel like I lost my own dog,” or “Thank you for letting us love her too.”
And suddenly, I didn’t feel so silly. Clearly, parasocial grief is more common than we think. Quiet. Often invisible, but deeply human. Mourning through screens is still mourning. I found comfort in the comment section in strangers’ stories. Because grief—even digital—needs a witness. And sometimes, the internet shows up for that, too.
Research backs it. A 2021 study examined how people mourned the death of high-profile celebrity Stephen Hawking on social media. Researchers analysed thousands of tweets and found a wide spectrum of emotions: sadness, shock, love, longing. People paid tribute, reminisced, created memorials, even advocated for science in his name. The findings suggested something profound—social media had become a legitimate space for parasocial grief. A new kind of mourning, shaped by a digital, connected world.
We often blame the internet for disconnecting us from reality. But what if it’s also helping us navigate a new kind of emotional truth? So yes, I cried over a dog I never met. And no, I’m no longer self-conscious about it. Because Kita reminded me that grief doesn’t have to follow rules. It’s mine to feel. Fully. Unapologetically. No explanation needed.
