When My Ceramic Dog Broke: A DIY Repair and the Decision to Let Go
All the king’s horses and all the king’s men couldn’t put my faceless ceramic pooch back together. I tried—armed with a mother’s determination and a tube of super glue—but in the end the pieces didn’t cooperate.
I set up shop on the back patio while Clara was napping, baby monitor in hand, because I’m unusually picky about fumes. It seemed straightforward at first: line up the fragments, apply adhesive, hold until set. But ceramics don’t always behave the way you expect.
Almost immediately things started to go wonky. Tiny shards that should have fit together were either missing or too small to anchor a clean seam. The edges ended up jagged instead of neat, and the overall shape looked patchy and uneven.
Several pieces simply wouldn’t match up. Some breaks were hairline thin and impossible to hold steady, while others left gaps that made the face look uneven and fractured rather than restored. The most disappointing discovery was that a significant portion of the top of my pup’s head was missing entirely—gone without a trace.
Womp-womp. The final result looked jagged and awkward. The glued seams were noticeable, and the missing chunk left the head asymmetrical. It felt less like a careful repair and more like a compromise—and I don’t like compromises when it comes to things I love.
There were a few options to consider. I could try to fill gaps with plaster or putty, sand and smooth the surface, then repaint the whole piece for a seamless look. Alternatively, I could take a creative route: intentionally break the rest to turn the body into a planters, lamp base, or a quirky, headless sculpture. Friends and readers had offered lots of inventive suggestions when the accident first happened. But for me, the face is the heart of this ceramic dog; without it the piece loses the charm that drew me to it in the first place.
Despite the failed restoration, I’m genuinely glad I tried. There’s something satisfying about making an honest effort before accepting a loss. And realistically, a large ceramic object in the hallway probably wasn’t ideal with a toddler who will soon be toddling. The break gave me a practical excuse to step back and reassess what’s safe and sensible for our home.
Emotionally, I’ve reached a place of acceptance. I can picture myself finally letting go of the damaged pup without that pang of regret. It’s a little like those movie moments—declaring I’ll never let go, then realizing sometimes letting go is the right thing. Even though it’s sad, it also opens space for something new.
On the bright side, I still have another favorite piece to enjoy: the concrete greyhound that sits nearby and brings its own personality to the space. It’s a reminder that collections evolve—some items we repair, some we repurpose, and some we part with. The experience taught me more about ceramic repair, the limits of DIY fixes, and the value of considering both sentimental worth and practical safety in a family home.
So, the ceramic dog’s broken face marks the end of this chapter. I’ll treasure the memories it represents and move forward with a mix of fondness and a little relief. After all, homes are living places that change as the family grows—and sometimes that includes letting go of pieces that no longer fit our life.