This is the hardest post I have ever written.
On Monday 24th April it became clear that our beloved dog-daughter, Poppy, was very ill and we were going to lose her.
She had been coping with a number of issues recently and, until Sunday 23rd April, was doing reasonably well. Then everything changed suddenly. She couldn’t walk and was dragging her back legs. We tried everything to help — I supported her to stand and we walked together so that I could hold her back legs. We hoped she might improve after a night’s rest, but by Monday she was worse.
We slept downstairs with her on Sunday night. She was restless and around 3 a.m. looked frightened because she couldn’t get up on her own. Watching someone you love struggle like that is heartbreaking.
The hardest part was that her mind was willing but her body failed her. For months I have beaten myself up over that — we had seen signs and knew something like this might come, but knowing it and going through it are completely different. I’ve cried and raged about how unfair it is that she was alert and aware while her body was betraying her.
On Monday morning we made an emergency appointment and Mr AN carried her into the clinic. She was stressed and frustrated by her legs. The vet was kind but honest: there was nothing more they could do. We had already changed our whole lives for her care — being with her around the clock, putting rugs down for traction, installing gates to prevent falls, maintaining a strict medication routine and keeping her mobile as long as possible. Physically she was not in pain, which was a small comfort, but she was becoming increasingly stressed.
I know Mr AN had hoped they could sedate her for another night to reassess, but the vet felt she would not recover. We were both in denial, clinging to the hope of some miracle.
I spent every possible moment with her that morning, sitting on the floor beside her, calming her. Deep down I feared what was coming, and when the vet gently said, “I think we should put her to sleep now,” my world fell apart.
We had read about the procedure and the team made the experience as peaceful as possible. As the surgery was closed for the morning we were allowed to stay with her for as long as we wanted. They sedated her and we sat on the floor feeding her a little pate. I never let go of her hand; I stroked her and told her how brave she had been and that she wouldn’t suffer for much longer.
She looked at me one last time, as if to say, “It’s all right, Mum. I’ll be okay. It’s time.” I didn’t think I could stay through it, but I wanted her to know she wasn’t alone. I stroked her until she took her final breath.
Some will say she was “just a dog,” but to us she was so much more. Poppy was like our child — loving, funny, loyal, and endlessly affectionate. She taught me to love dogs after years of fear, taught me what it meant to put someone else’s needs first, and helped me become a different, kinder person.
People often reacted to her size and breed with caution — she was a German Shepherd — but she was gentle and tender-hearted. She had a cheeky side: the little side-eye, the soft ears, the kisses, the way she forgave us instantly. I miss the everyday things that made our life together whole. I miss cleaning up food spills quickly in case she ate them, watching my feet when she padded around during workouts, her cuddles, and the way she looked at us with those beautiful eyes.
The house is so quiet now. We can’t bring ourselves to put her bed away, so it remains in the living room. Her other bed is upstairs by our bed, still covered with her fur — we haven’t hoovered it because it’s the last tangible piece of her. We’ve put up photos around the house and are having a frame made with her tag and a picture. We have a lock of her hair and her collar back; they sit on her bed alongside some of her favourite toys.
I sleep with one of her toys for comfort; it helps me feel close to her and is the only way I can fall asleep some nights. We collected her ashes last Wednesday, which brought a bittersweet comfort — she was home with us again, but it also made the loss painfully real.
Right now we are taking each day as it comes. We remind ourselves that, as heartbreaking as it was, we did the right thing when she could no longer walk or go to the loo independently. Saying it doesn’t lessen the ache — there is a physical pain in my chest and it feels like my heart is breaking in two.
Her 14th birthday would have been next week, which will be another difficult milestone. There will be many firsts without her that we never wanted to face.
I plan to return to blogging because having something to focus on helps, though I can’t promise a regular schedule just yet. Thank you for the kind messages and support — it means more than I can say. I will be back with new recipes when I am ready.
