To provide some context on this piece – not that anyone who has ever owned or grieved for a pet needs one – in 2023, my long-term partner (a person I considered to be my life-long partner) split with me, and I moved back in with my mum, brother, and our darling dog, Izzy (and Bella, who is still going strong, thankfully). Through my darkest time, Izzy provided some much-needed light, so when she prematurely passed away, I think I felt the pain in double.

Izzy

Her fur was the colour of golden sand. When she was a pup, it was brown, and she was so small you could fit her in one hand. At eleven, people still confused her for a pup, not only because she acted like it with her tail wagging and excitability but because she had the cutest, squishiest face you can imagine. Put her next to a newborn baby clad in a pumpkin costume, and I’d choose her every time. Big brown eyes, tiny nose, small, chunky body covered in soft, ginger fur. Her name was Izzy, and she was perfection. I’d fight that corner until my lungs gave out.

I feel incredibly lucky to have had her in the family, and I knew it at the time. Eleven years ago, if someone had asked me to describe my perfect dog, I would have listed her every characteristic. Sweet, loving, affectionate. Always happy to see you, always happiest when receiving your love. Knows when you’re upset and knows when her company is needed. Clever, playful. Knows when she’s had enough and isn’t afraid to turn her face away when you’re annoying her. Rolls on her back when she’s in trouble because she knows how cute she is when she does that. Gives you her paw without asking because she’s learnt her power and owns it. Good, through and through.

I’ve experienced the loss of a pet before, but I’ve never felt grief quite like I did (and still do) for Izzy. Izzy was Izzy. Completely unique, entirely irreplaceable. Impossible not to love. Everyone in the family thought she’d stick around forever. We’d tell her that, too. You’re sticking with us forever. We knew that couldn’t really happen, but the alternative was just too unimaginable. My brother loved her as much as I did. Only a dog that special can bewitch two people so thoroughly.

I lived without her for a long time but always missed her. I couldn’t wait to visit Mum’s house to see that wagging tail. After an unexpected event in my personal life, I moved back in with Mum. Back in with Izzy. From May until September, we were inseparable. She was, truth be told, my only friend and companion. She helped fill the absence of someone I missed. She helped me to be strong. On the many nights that I cried, she was by my side, and it didn’t feel so bad anymore. She was the only therapy I needed. If I were upset, I’d pick her up and take her with me, but most of the time, I didn’t need to do that. She’d be there, anyway. She loved company. She loved lying by your side and pawing you for strokes. And I never tired of giving them her. She was the kind of sweet soul you always wanted to make happy. When I was at my workstation, I’d hear paws pattering on the wooden floor, telling me she’d arrived to join me for the day. Her little face would peer up at me until I wheeled my chair back, and then she’d lie by my feet, happy and content. If I went downstairs for a brew, she’d be lying at the top of the landing, wagging her tail when I came up again. She’d follow me into my room. She’d stay there all night.

Her death came unexpectedly. One moment, she was fit and healthy; the next, she wasn’t. There was no preparing for it. No readying ourselves for the loss of our sweet dog. She became a little ill and then a little more, but it wasn’t anything to overly alarm us or the vet. She never complained. She never cried, yelped, or showed signs of pain. On her last night, I stayed downstairs with her. She was due to visit the vet again in the morning, and I wanted to comfort her, to give her the company I knew she needed like she always knew with me. She deteriorated so rapidly that I couldn’t do anything to stop it. She pawed at me for strokes, and I gave them. And when she took her last breath at 4.20 in the morning, I was stroking her still. The price I pay for getting to love her? Having that memory claim a permanent place in my brain. Getting to relive it when I’d rather forget. But I’d pay it again for those four months with her. I’d experience this grief over and over if it means getting to comfort her through her last moments. In the end, we comforted each other.

I’ll love you always, Iz.