An honest, raw, words-onto-page, day-by-day account of grief.
Losing a beloved pet, a family member, is one of the most heartbreaking experiences many of us will face. For those who have shared companionship, laughter, and quiet moments, saying goodbye to a pet can feel overwhelming. This bereavement diary is a personal journey through the grief of losing Fifi, a forever cherished companion who filled my life with meaning. Writing about these memories—our favourite walks, shared routines, and quiet evenings—has become a way to cope with the profound sadness that comes with pet loss. Here, I’ll share moments from the days leading up to Fifi's passing, hoping to offer comfort to anyone who is navigating the painful journey of pet bereavement.
DAY 1: TERROR
9am. Rang Paws at Peace. Voicemail. Felt on edge waiting for callback. Told Emily I’d be on light duties this week. Nell is very poorly too.
2pm. Paws at Peace rang back. Booked the appointment for 1.30pm Monday. Kim is lovely. I was businesslike, no emotion. I’m just making arrangements and ticking boxes. I don’t feel anything. Forcing myself just to sit and be with her, despite the urge to distract myself with work, but I’m not making that mistake again.
5pm. Got her all the nice meals: steak, Corned beef hash, roast beef, hunters chicken, cod mornay.
Kim has arranged for Forget Me Not cremation to collect Fifi at 3.30pm. That will give us an hour with her after she has passed. I will buy flowers.
7pm. I’m on our bed with her. She is snoring peacefully. This time next week she won’t be here. And she will never come back. When she is gone she is gone. Dead is forever. I am so scared. I’m terrified of the pain that’s coming. How can I live without Fifi? I can. I lived without Lao. But I feel the terror rising in my chest. I’m trying to breathe through it so I don’t let her know anything is wrong. Dead is forever. When she goes, she’s never coming back. I’m scared of being alone. I’m scared of her being afraid. She doesn’t know she won’t be here next week, safe with us. I want to always be here to protect her so she knows she is safe.
Favourite walk: Asda
Breakfast: Mince stew
Lunch: Hunter’s Chicken with potato wedges & veg
Dinner: Cheese omelette
Snacks: 3 fillets of steak
DAY 2: WHAT IS COMING
1pm. Last night’s existential panic seems to have done me some good. I’m a little more at peace with the decision today. The day feels different to the night though. The day is rational and disconnected, even when I try to connect to the reality that she won’t be here this time next week. She won’t be laying besides me, softly snoring as she is now, after a potter in one of her favourite spots, the leaves gold and red and orange, softly snoozing after a lamb chop lunch. Ruben is very rational. He encourages me to focus on lucky she is that she doesn’t know anything. All I can think of is the pain that’s coming. Like holding my hand over an open flame, knowing that soon I have to lower it. Standing on the edge of a cliff knowing I have to jump. What waits is unbearable. I want her to live forever.
4.30pm. I think it’s worse this time as I know what’s coming. All the horrible tricks my mind played on me with Lao, the dreams and having to remember over and over again that he wasn’t ever coming back.
7pm. Filming her sleeping between my legs on the bed, so that I never forget what she’s like, what it’s like to have her warm body against mine. Mad, incomprehensible, to think there will be a day when I can’t just touch her. Have I valued her enough? Have I appreciated her? Have I given her the best life I could have? I wish I’d done better. I wish I’d appreciated every single moment of her life. The walks that were a box tick, the days she didn’t get enough time, the days she was alone too long. The confusing days where we moved about. London, Italy. I’m sorry Fifi. You needed security. The days that weren’t interesting. I’m sorry Fifi. You needed interesting. You needed me as your security and you needed to do interesting things. I didn’t always provide those things for you. I’m sorry Fifi. You ate poison in the park and you nearly died. You cut your leg on some glass in an overgrown patch of the garden we’d just moved into. You had separation anxiety when we first adopted you and I didn’t know how to deal with it properly. But then I figured it out and I cured you! I sat on the stairs and read my pile of summer books. Then I sat on the stoop and read The Odyssey. I thought you’d live until you were 16 and I was 40. We’re 17 and 41 now.
Death makes no sense. How can something that means so much to you be gone so suddenly? When you’re not ready to let them go?
This time next week I will be alone. And full of guilt and regret and pain. Wherever she will be I hope she feels safe, and loved.
🎶 You don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone.
Favourite walk: Redhall
Breakfast: Mince stew
Lunch: Lamb chops with veg
Dinner: Hunter’s Chicken with potato wedges & veg
Snacks: Smoked salmon, sleepy biscuits
DAY 3: ARBITRARY
9am. She has no idea what’s coming. Does she think this is forever? Safe and cosy and forever with us. Does she have a concept of the future?
2pm. South Park. Autumn gold and red and brown and orange. The heron flew up and surprised us, crossing our path. We took her to see the ducks and she chased the pigeons. She was looking sore on the way back to the car. She had an ice cream and met the kindest man. He left his young dog with his wife and came to say hello to Fi. He knelt down on the floor with her and told her how lovely she was. Fifi was surprisingly engaged with him (she doesn’t tend to ‘see’ people any more).
8pm. Why are we killing her? What are you supposed to do with a dog who can walk around the park and eat ice cream? She’s having a really good week so far touch wood touch wood touch wood. I want some rules to abide by. Soon the house will be empty. She will be gone and I will be convinced I made a terrible mistake. I need to call it off. She might not have much longer but why am I cutting the time short? Next week I will wish I could sell my soul to the devil for 5 more minutes with her and here I am now cutting it short. It feels completely arbitrary. Why now? I decided it was now because she was so very poorly last week. I don’t want her to deteriorate before Monday, I want her last days to be good. But then I won’t think I’m making the right decision. Is it really better for them to be well when they go? It feels too arbitrary, too out-of-thin-air. Why Monday and not Tuesday? Why the 28th and not the 29th or the 30th? On the 29th when she is gone I will do anything to be where I am now, when I could still change the date. And have one more day with her. 5 more minutes. But where does it end? How many times will she need to be poorly? I think she would live until she’s 20. But with what quality of life. If I take care of her like this maybe her quality of life won’t get worse. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. I don’t know anything.
I want her to feel safe. I want her to feel love. I want her to be forever.
Heron symbolismAs a bird associated with patience, grace, and transitions, the heron crossing your path could symbolise the gentle passage between life and death, offering a sense of peace around your decision for your dog. It may represent a guide, signaling that this transition, while painful, is part of a natural, graceful flow, much like the cycles of nature.
Herons are solitary creatures, often appearing calm and still as they wait patiently by the water’s edge. This could be a reminder to embrace stillness and patience in the face of grief, allowing yourself the space to feel and process your emotions. The heron’s presence may also reassure you that your dog’s passing is not just an end but a transition into something beyond, a return to peace, where suffering no longer exists.
The timing of the heron’s appearance, so close to the moment when you must say goodbye, might also reflect that your dog’s journey is being watched over, and that you, too, are being supported—perhaps by nature, the universe, or your own inner strength—during this emotional time. It’s a beautiful, albeit bittersweet, reminder that love, like life, doesn’t end but evolves.
Your dog has been your companion through so much, and this moment, as hard as it is, could be marked by that heron’s quiet grace, as if to remind you to trust that you’re walking this path with courage and care.
Favourite walk: South Park
Breakfast: Haslet 😅 (all she would eat)
Brunch: Lamb chops with pear and ricotta tart for dessert
Dinner: Corned beef hash with roast potatoes.
Snacks: Ice cream cone🍦
DAY 4: A HOLE 16 YEARS DEEP
I am flat today, nothing much to write. She hasn’t wanted to eat a lot which was a shame as she had the most amazing array of party food. Steak, lamb, pork, two kinds of cheese, prawns, ham, pigs in blankets, McDonalds cheeseburger, chicken nuggets, fries, and donuts. Lao devoured his steak and McDonalds. Fifi devoured Lao’s everything else actually. I’m still not used to a Fifi without a voracious appetite. I’m grateful to Ronja for coming to take photos. I recorded a video for Club Dogwood. I don’t know if I’ll share it. Anyone who hasn’t said goodbye to their dog yet may think it’s easier to lose an elderly dog. It is I suppose because you don’t feel the sense of injustice, and anger, that their lives were cut short. I can be grateful she has lived a long, happy life. But how do you fill a hole that’s 16 1/2 years deep? I’ve lived a lifetime with you Fi, but it’s not enough. Monday is getting closer, it no longer feels like a long time away.
Note to the future: You did well this week. No need to feel guilty. She felt safe and loved, you didn’t leave her side. You did everything you could.
Favourite walk: Dogwood West
Breakfast: Picked at roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with roast potato and veg.
Late Lunch: Party food! Pigs in blankets were her favourite. She didn’t have an appetite for much else.
Dinner: She didn’t want anything
Snacks: Pumpkin pie
DAY 5: FLAT
6.30am. She is a sleeping pile of blankets. I love wrapping her back up and she makes a contented little groan and pushes her nose right under the blanket so she’s completely covered. I lie with her, my arm rising and falling with her deep sleepy breathing. She’s warm and safe.
2.30pm. A GIANT wasp flew into the kitchen while Fifi was eating late lunch. I could see all parts of its body so clearly, amplified. I tried to waft it outside with an envelope but the weight of it made me lose my nerve and it buzzed angrily.
7pm. I feel flat again, and pointless. I went on Instagram and it all seems meaningless. My heart is aching for all the dogs who don’t have the love that Dogwood dogs have. I think of all the sad old dogs in pain, scared, and I want them all to be safe and loved and free of pain. I shared the news with Club Dogwood today and it brought a lot of comfort to hear people who get it say that it’s an act of love. It was a welcome reminder when I am so full of doubt and uncertainty.
Wasp symbolism
In folklore and various spiritual interpretations, a giant wasp appearing before death can symbolize a powerful transition or a warning of impending change. The wasp, particularly in an amplified form, may signify an intense message or an alert to be prepared for transformation, perhaps symbolizing a shift that leads from one phase of existence to another.
In some traditions, insects—especially those that are aggressive or territorial like the wasp—are seen as messengers of the spirit world. A giant wasp might represent an unavoidable force or an intense journey into the unknown. The symbolism here suggests a confrontation with mortality, urging awareness of one’s own path and purpose, and a need to find courage and clarity before crossing into new realms.
Favourite walk: North Park Cemetery
Breakfast: She didn’t want anything.
Late lunch: Party food leftovers!
Dinner: Steak
Snacks: -
DAY 6: A FORCE
Saturday 26th October??? Already. That’s almost the 28th. I keep trying to imagine whatever scene I’m in but with Fifi not there. I can only describe it as desolate. An incomprehensible nightmare that thank god isn’t real. Yet. The sheer physical surge of relief when I bring myself back to the present and she’s here and I can touch her and hear her snoring gently under the blankets. I’m afraid of the moments I will try to bring myself back to the present next week, and she is never coming back. She stayed in bed until 2.30 last night, the longest for ages. Will I be able to bear being in that bed without her. Fifi has been in my life longer than anything else. Longer than Ruben, longer than Lao, longer than Dogwood, longer than this house, this town. She’s been with me throughout everything. I was so young when I adopted her. I’m a completely different person. She is the part of me that is the same. When she’s not here I’ll be adrift. Emily wrote something to me yesterday, about how much joy Fifi has brought people. Everyone loved Fifi. She was so full of life and enthusiasm. All my friends in London loved her and she came everywhere with me, Dogs Trust HQ loved her - she helped the HR lady conquer her fear of staffies, she was especially popular in Italy; Marcella particularly loved her, and then back in Darlington, Dogs Trust, Dogwood, she is joy. I’ve just realised that I am proud of who Fifi has made me. She showed me what it is to put someone else first, and I always put her first, and Lao. 16.something years is a long time to entirely wrap your life around someone else’s. Kids would go to school, go out with their friends, be off doing their own thing. Fifi is here will me, all the time. How do I do it without her.
“‘Fifi is a force. She’s simply the best bits of all things ‘dog’ mixed together - she brings a lot of people joy. I have no doubt she’s your best friend and she’s probably your longest reigning partner in life and knowing how to be without her physically with you is something you just don’t have the manual for. She will be there in some way - because she’s such a massive part of everything you do and the way that you do it.’ ”
4pm. Heart and soul screaming against it. Gut saying it’s happening. Brain useless, no point consulting with that. The truth is that life is never getting better for Fifi. Last Sunday and so many days before not eating, horrendous stomach noises, hunched, pacing her pre-programmed dementia routes over and over and, pacing the garden, legs stop working, can’t settle, trips to the vets, falling over hurting herself, confused, disoriented. She’s the strongest being I’ve ever known. But things are never getting better for her. Every time we’ve cancelled the appointment they’ve got worse. QOL scores only going in one direction. The dips that cause us to make the appointments become the new normal. The risk is that we slowly let her fall a part, so gradual that it’s imperceptible, acceptable.
8pm. Nothing but panic. Tomorrow it will be her last full day on earth. What do you even do? I thought I had it all planned out but it doesn’t seem enough. How can I make it perfect? I’ve been watching mind numbing videos, I can’t find the words, just want to escape. I have this fantasy where I take her away to a place she won’t die on Monday, but then what? There’s nowhere I can take her where she will escape pain, old age, death. I dream of a deathless place where we never have to leave each other. I want to go back to our normal lives. Safe and comfortable and whole, endlessly together. Of course it wasn’t ever endless, but it felt like it.
I cried and cried and cried.
“‘It *is* arbitrary. That’s our role, our responsibility as protectors and guardians.’ ”
Favourite walk: Beach 🏖️
Breakfast: -
Lunch: Lamb chops by the sea!
Dinner: Steak and salmon with potato and broccoli
Snacks: Greek yoghurt with honey.
DAY 7: WHY DO WE GRIEVE?
These quiet mornings on the sofa in blankets are my heaven. I think they’re hers too. I got an extra hour with her this morning. Lots of tears now.
I’ve received so many beautiful messages and I’m grateful for all of them. Some hit exactly when and where I needed them most. Like this one I woke up to, from Claire.
“‘When we finally helped Floss (JRT 16yr 10mths, took her in age 13.5 after neighbour died) on her way it was our final act of love, our sacrifice. Floss had doggy-dementia, chronic pancreatitis, kidney failure (diagnosed 18mths previously!) and severe arthritis. Yes as a ‘tough little terrier’ (vet’s description after emergency admissions) she could have kept going but it wasn’t fair as she no longer had any quality of life. Helping Floss go to sleep for the final time broke my heart as she literally saved my life but she deserved the best of everything even in death. Letting her go peacefully was our final act of love and gratitude however much it hurt💔. So many times we thought the decision was made but then she rallied. This time she just seemed so tired of it all. We still miss her and talk about her, as we do Beauty my childhood dog who also had to be helped on her way(1979-94)- I was born in 1977 so didn’t remember life without her. Fifi and Lao will always be a part of you Katie, just know I feel your pain, the questions etc etc. Holding you close xxx’”
Ruben said that to avoid the pain of loss you either detach yourself and don’t feel anything, or you die too. Neither of which are desirable. And so you just have to feel it. In all its cruel, unbearable, incomprehensible twists and turns and plummets.
My active zone minutes are double what they would normally be and I haven’t been exercising. Cortisol levels increase during grief.
One of the questions I keep returning to is, how can grief be adaptive when it feels more destructive than useful? Is it even adaptive? Does it have a biological purpose?
Question 2, the biggest question of all because it’s the cruelest of all the psychological glitches, and it’s what always triggers the first question. Why do our brains struggle to understand that the separation is permanent?
With Lao it took weeks of waking up and re-realising what had happened. That’s the glitch; that you have to remember it over and over again.
From my reading so far it seems that grief is an unfortunate side effect of close relationships. And the glitch happens because we use brain maps to find our loved ones, to predict where they are, and to search for them when they are gone. A key problem in grief is that there is a mismatch between the virtual map we always use to find our loved ones, and the reality, after they die, that they can no longer be found in the dimensions of space and time. That’s how religion offers people comfort; they know where (space) their loved ones are (Heaven, etc), and when (time) they will see them again (when they too die).
12.30. I feel dizzy and faint. It’s grim from every angle today. She wasn’t particularly enthusiastic on her ugly walk. We took her clay cast of her paw print. It’s something I wish I’d done with Lao, because I never want to forget the round weight of his magnificent zampone. Even without the clay cast, I haven’t forgotten. I hold out my hand and can feel it now. I’m grieving for Lao, I’m grieving for Fifi and I’m grieving for my lost family.
5pm. She was very curious and exploratory on her street stroll. She took me down all the side streets we haven’t been down for ages, every time we turned back towards our street she turned us round again. As if she knew it was her last time walking those streets and she didn’t want it to end, or she was savouring every scent to take with her, wherever she is going next. Which is impossible, isn’t it. As we headed home the streetlights flicked on and I thought how fitting it is that she goes out with British Summer Time, such a sunny summer dog she is. After the unenthusiastic ugly walk this morning, we went on two more walks, which she enjoyed. This one to the green and around the streets just now, and we went back to Redhall mid afternoon where we saw a huge black cat staring at us. It was sitting tall, totally unfazed that we were there. I keep having waves of panic that she hasn’t been to my parents’ house which she loves and she hasn’t been here and she hasn’t been there. My mum, dad and brother came to visit her at lunchtime and we reminisced about her long life, which passed in the blink of an eye. She has been giving me lots of kisses today. I think she has had a happy little day.
5.30. I’m struggling to place the emotion. It’s like a cocktail of panic, anxiety and total disbelief. It’s linked with time and how little we now have left. I don’t know how to honour that time, or how to even believe what’s happening. Time is slipping through my fingers. There’s a helplessness in knowing that every moment is precious, and there are fewer and fewer remaining. The hours seem both fleeting and eternal, stretching with each second and yet rushing past in an impossible blur. How do I say goodbye when every moment feels like a desperate attempt to hold on, to keep us here, together, just a little longer?
I put my face to hers and kissed her big staffy cheeks and said I’m sorry I wasn’t always the best mummy, and she gave me lots of kisses. I’m forgiven. Katie, you are forgiven.
9.15pm. Snuggling on the sofa together for the last time in the evening. It’s impossible. Like all the other times, but the last one. To her it’s just like all the other times. Some of my happiest, most content moments in life have been Fifi and I snuggling on this sofa. And it will never happen again.
Black Cat symbolism
In many cultures, a black cat nearing death carries layered symbolism, often reflecting themes of transition, mystery, protection, and even intuition. Black cats, historically seen as symbols of the mystical and unknown, are often associated with the boundary between life and death. Their presence near death can be seen as a protective guide, watching over the journey or helping facilitate a peaceful transition. In some traditions, a black cat symbolizes intuition and wisdom, suggesting that as life fades, there’s a call to trust one’s inner knowing and to honor the sacredness of this natural cycle. Rather than a harbinger of bad luck, a black cat in such a context might embody the mystery and sanctity of the end of life.
I’m not finding much comfort in the animal symbolism but I may think it’s interesting later.
Favourite walk: Saving the bet til last: Lao’s original ugly walk! So many happy memories.
Breakfast: Picked at lamb chops with broccoli
Brunch: Pigs in blankets
Dinner: Steak
Snacks: Banana bread 🍌🍞
DAY 8:
6am. Prickling anxiety in my chest. I’d hoped she would have a peaceful night, soundly snoring before I laid my own head down to sleep, like the other nights this week. But she rolled off the bed at 11ish and needed to go the toilet. She paced the garden for ages, and when she finally came back inside, she went to the sofa like she normally does, but I encouraged her to come back to bed with me, just for this one last night. We slept soundly until 3.30 when she needed a quick wee then I let her stay on the sofa. I cuddled her until she fell asleep then I woke up 30 mins later and she was fast asleep so I went to bed. I’d set my alarm for 6am but woke up at quarter to. I heard a thud and rushed downstairs. She had fallen off the sofa. She needed to go out then she came back in, then she needed to go out again. It rained all night too, and I realise how lucky we’ve been this week as it hasn’t rained at all and it’s been sunny every day. She’s sleeping soundly now and I’ve taken footage. The videos helped a lot after Lao passed. I would watch them back and almost be able to feel the weight of him against me, the smell of him, how his fur felt, the sense of peace and contentment that a happily sleeping dog brings. Today is the day I authorise the killing of my best friend.
10am. A lovely sunny morning in Dogwood East made up for the rubbish night. She was curious and exploratory, having a good mooch and sniffing all the smells. She ‘found’ an amazing buffet breakfast that someone must have left behind in the sensory garden! Omelette, lamb chops, pigs in blankets, cheese flatbread. What a feast! She chose the flatbread and pigs in blankets. We mooched around the paddock and into the shelter. I gave her lots of ear scratches (her favourite). My dad walked around with a water bowl, refreshing it every 10 mins and offering her a drink. My mum and dad have been incredible. They asked if they could be here when the vet comes. I’ve shared my wishes with them and with Ruben; they can all be there but I want to be the only one next to Fifi for the procedure. Just her and me. Fifi is everyone’s, but most of all she is mine. There is so much heat in the sun. Now she’s sleeping on her bed in my office and I’m right next to her. It’s a way to distract myself writing this and sorting through our photos and then I realise that now we’ve done Dogwood, there are no other plans. The next event is the last event. We wait. And that thought is crushing. It crushes my chest and it’s hard to breathe. The sunshine sparkles through my tears.
11am. I rang the crematorium. I meant to do it last week. I asked if Fifi was being cremated today. They said tomorrow. I got off the phone and crumbled. The night we left Lao in the vets was the most painful night of my life. Knowing he wouldn’t be cremated until the next day. All alone in a strange, cold place. I sobbed and sobbed and asked Ruben if we can keep her at home with us tonight. I rang Kim to find out how bad the decomposition would be. She’s staying with us overnight and we will take her to the crematorium in the morning. This feels better.
12.30. Walked around Asda. She enjoyed it, got a bit tired the last little stretch. In the 2 hours leading up, the dread turned to nerves. Feel sick, dizzy. Full of nervous adrenaline. Lots of deep breathing, for her sake.
4pm. We were snuggling on her bed in the office. Kim arrived. I carried her to the garden to see if she wanted a wee. She had a wee so she must have felt nice and relieved. She trotted over to me after her wee and and I talked sweetly to her and gave her kisses. She walked down the ramp on her own. I scooped her up and carried her upstairs. Ruben laid down a blanket for her on the bed, the place she most wanted to be this past week. I laid her down on top of it and she settled straightaway. Ruben and I spent 5 minutes alone with her on the bed, and we gave her a Reece’s chocolate. I asked Ruben if we could swap and I could be near her head. I gave her some cuddles and asked Ruben if it was time. We called Kim. Kim gave her the sedative and morphine and while the injection was going in, I scratched her ears and she grunted contentedly. Then, beatific. She gave Ruben and I, mostly me, lots and lots of big enthusiastic happy kisses. She laid her head down and we looked into each others’ eyes, my head laid in front of hers. I kissed her and soothed her. She started breathing deeply, and slowly she slipped into a very deep sleep. I held her head and told her I’m here, that there was nothing to worry about, I love you and I’ll always love you, it’s all going to be ok and I’ll see you very soon. I asked Kim to give her the second injection, the one that would stop her heart. Kim laid Fifi’s paw on my arm. And her breathing became laboured. Kim said she had passed. She let out her final breaths, after she had passed.
She looked like she was just going to get up again. Everything looked the same, apart from the life. I asked her some questions, running my hand down her body in disbelief, checking whether it could be true. Fifi is it possible that you’re not here any more? Are you really gone? Surreal.
Ruben and I spent some time with her on the bed, then I asked Kim to come and wrap her up before she left. She’s a snuggly burrito. I carried her down to her resting place, where she is now.
She looks like she is sleeping. I sat in front of her with my head and hand on her body. Kim left and I laid behind her on her bed cuddling her. I was sobbing, but I felt a peace lying there with her. She felt just the same as she did in life, but without the movement. I knew I wasn’t hurting her as I sometimes worried about when she was alive. I could have stayed there forever. It was the most at peace I’ve felt for a long time.
It was a beautiful death. I was holding her head, telling her I love her and assuring her that she’s safe. Loved. Forever.
Her final kisses were so wonderful. My mum said she was thanking us. Maybe she was. Or maybe she felt full of love and free from pain from the morphine. Either way if she felt happy enough to lick us as the last thing she did, I am happy.
Fifi I love you so much. I’m so glad you’re here with me tonight. Where you are safe and loved. Nothing bad can happen to you here.
I should have stayed on the sofa with her last night and she might not have fallen off. I always felt I’m just in her way on the sofa though. That I’m going to make her too hot and she’ll need to go somewhere else. I thought it was best to leave her while she was comfortable. Katie, I forgive you. You were close to her always, if ever she needed you, you were never far away.
The thoughts they are all over the place. The emotions too. I did my best, I could have done better. She is at peace, she should be here. And on and on and on.
8.30pm. A beautiful night. The people who cared most about her pulled up a chair and sat around her, talking sweetly to her as if she were alive, sharing stories, reminiscing, reminding each other of things that you did Fifi, the places you went, all the adventures, experiences, excitement and love that you had.
My mum and dad keep a lot of random old photos on their phones, the unaesthetic ones, the funny ones, the sweet ones. There were so many candid shots of Fifi and I cuddling on a sofa here there and everywhere. You had such a beautiful life Fifi. Right now I feel so fortunate that you had the life and death you did. Most people won’t have a candlelit vigil, watched over by people who love you dearly, and here you are, the most loved of all things.
The photos were a huge comfort. They showed her in summer 23 doing absolutely fantastically. November 23 still doing exceptionally well. It was December 23 when she lost her vision in one eye that things deteriorated, but she was still doing pretty good in April and May this year. Looking at the photos, I realised it was her time.
Fifi I love you. I love you so much. I know you feel safe and loved wherever you are, I can feel it. I didn't feel that with Lao. I’m so relieved that I think you must be ok.
I’ve just said goodnight to her, left her in her resting place, told her I loved her endlessly. Rested my hand on her head and expected her to do her contented little grunt.
Fifi I’m so pleased you are home with us. Where you are safe. Where you belong. The bed feels empty tonight, yet I feel connected to you here too, as it was the place where you took your last breath. Fifi Fifi Fifi my sweet angel. My love, my Feef. The pain.
Favourite walk: Dogwood East
Breakfast: Cheese flatbread, Pigs in blankets.
A few more pigs in blankets throughout the day.
Time of death: 28.10.24, approx 2pm.
Temperature: 16 degrees, like a spring day.
Age: 17 years, 1 month, 28 days.
DAY 9: FINAL ACTS
6am. I woke at 4. What if she needs me? She did. She had a little bloody foam coming from her nose. I cleaned it with a tissue. That’s ok Feef, no problem, let’s get you all cleaned up. She was cold so I covered her forehead and eyes with a blanket, leaving just her nose poking out, as I always do for her in the morning. There was no contented little groan. I miss her so much everything hurts.
The last photo of her alive yesterday was at 1.41. Then next one, 2.15, was her all tucked up in her blanket, when her heart was no longer beating, and she was no longer breathing and she was the most peaceful little bundle.
8am. How is everyone just getting on and living their lives, without Fifi? How can the world keep turning without her in it? I want everyone to stop what they’re doing and adore her. My mum and I sat and talked to her all morning. I told her that I would create a Scentventure Award in her honour and that it would bring joy to so many dogs and their humans, and what a legacy she was leaving. How lovely is that Fi? Bringing so much happiness? I wrote her a letter, for her to take with her.
10am. We dropped her off at the crematorium. I love that we have done everything for her. We’ve been there with her at every step. I love that I could clean up her bloody nose, keep her muzzle clean, give her that dignity. I was afraid that I’d be horrified by the changes that death would bring to my baby girl. But no, I’m glad I could be there to mop her up, and give her that dignity. The house is hollow. We can collect her at 3pm. Thank god she’ll be home tonight. My brain is latching onto ‘the next thing’, as if picking her ashes up from the crematorium is something to look forward to. It’s all I have and it takes me away from the unbearable pain of the present.
1pm. It is unbearable. The only thing that can make me feel better is Fifi. A Time Machine back to her prime. Or even just 5 more minutes with her, as she was, before she fell asleep yesterday. To smell her, to touch her, to hear her breathing heavily, softly snoring. She was the best of all things dog. She was sweet, sensitive, fun, bold and brave. The best companion. She was just easy to be around. She made you feel happy. There is no meaning anywhere.
I can cry while doing anything. Walking. Eating. Talking. At the toilet. I can cry in my sleep, I can cry when cooking. You name it, I can cry through it.
3.30. We’ve just picked her up from the crematorium. Every step on this journey has been worst than the last. Every part of the process more bleak. First step she was alive and coming over to me enthusiastically in the garden after she’d had a wee. Then I carried her to bed. Then we snuggled. Then she was sedated. Then she was euthanised and then she was dead. Then she just looked like she was sleeping. Then I cuddled her and she was still warm and cosy and her weight against me, like she was alive just without the breath. Then this morning she was cold. Then we took her to the crematorium. Then we brought her home in a small purple velveteen bag. And then nothing. Nothing else. Nothing more to do, no other ways I can tend to her, to look after her. Nothing more to do except figure out how to live without her. It’s just shit. I don’t want to live without her. No good could possibly come of it. The world is worse. Sadder. Hollow.
She’s on my lap, on a blanket. Whenever I unfolded a blanket on the sofa, she would be straight over to snuggle. Snuggling with Fifi on the sofa was the greatest feeling ever. We were both happiest then, I think.
How can I get her back?
Carrying her around and placing her on the bed, where she liked to sleep when I had a bath (in the latter days that is, previously she was in the bathroom with me, licking my wet face at the side of the tub). It brings comfort to have her with me, in our usual places, our usual rituals. Until I’m suddenly hit with the cold hard reality that a velveteen pouch is not the same as my baby girl. I’m cold and tired and so weighed down by sadness I can barely lift my head. I’m forcing myself to get a bath. Personal hygiene has been non-existent. It seemed like such a gross misuse of time. Like washing the clothes she died in feels like a betrayal. Washing my body does too.
Hi Kim,
Thank you so much for yesterday. We, thanks to you, gave Fifi a kind and peaceful death.
We sat around her last night, lit candles, shared memories and looked through old photos on our phones. We cried and laughed.
Then she was such a good girl overnight, just a little bit of blood from her nose, and it was a comfort to be able to clean her up and let her body transition with dignity. I'm so glad I kept her at home.
We collected her from Forget Me Not this afternoon, so she wasn't away long.
I am broken but I'm taking comfort in how easy and dignified we made things for her.
Thank you from the bottom of my heart for being a part of it.
Love Katie, Ruben & Fifi 🤍✨
Dear Katie and Ruben,
Thank you so much for all your kind words. They genuinely really mean a lot.
It was obvious how much love your hearts held for this beautiful little lady and she was so lucky to end up in your lives (and vice versa).
I am glad and honoured that we could support you through this journey and make saying your final goodbye to her as comfortable and memorable as possible.
Look after each other, take care xx Kim
Fifi, dolce anima che ora riposa,
nella tua casa, amata e preziosa.
Katie e Ruben ti hanno tenuto stretta,
nel loro cuore resterai perfetta.*
Translation:
Fifi, sweet soul now at rest,
in your home, beloved and blessed.
Katie and Ruben held you tight,
in their hearts, you’ll remain just right.*
*Perfetta means perfect - in our hearts she’ll remain perfect.
DAY 10+ : DESOLATION
There is no reason to get out of bed. I look through photos on my phone.
Trying to remember happy times. Getting into bed with me in the mornings. Packing up the car for an adventure. Spending so much time at Dogwood in the early days. She loved when I gave her lots and lots of kisses on her face. Raspberries on her tummy. Pulling down the washing on the radiators with her paws, thinking it was her blankets I’d put on there to warm for her. Playtimes with Bobo, Gemma, Florence, Terrence. Love and care from Nadia. Everyone loved Fifi. Quiet evenings on the sofa when Ruben was away.
I’m consumed with pain and regret and guilt and doubt.
Negative space. What do you do with it? The extra pocket now you don’t have to carry treats. I put my gloves inside but it felt wrong so I took them out again. The extra shelf in the fridge now you don’t need the packets of chicken and ham for tablets, the tupperware with her selection meals. The cupboard for bowls, lickimats, coats, jumpers all the trappings of her little life are still there.
Negative time. What do you do with it? The walks, the feeding, the medicating, the tending to, the time just spent together not doing anything else? I’ve got a lot of time on my hands.
We have received so many beautiful tributes. I am so touched by the kindness and care flowing our way. A song has been playing on loop in my mind, the lyrics like death itself. I’ll link it below.
The psychological glitches are firing fast. Where’s Fifi? Don’t close the door, Fifi’s upstairs. Fifi must be in the office, on the bed. She’s somewhere else in the house because she’s not here. These are the mental maps O’Connor talks about:
We use brain maps so that we can find our loved ones when we need them. A problem in grief is that there is a mismatch between the virtual map we always use to find our loved ones, and the reality, after they die, that they can no longer be found in the dimensions of space and time.
It does not compute; the brain cannot predict this possibility, because it is outside the brain's experience. The idea that a person simply does not exist anymore does not follow the rules the brain has learned over a lifetime.
If the person we love is missing, then our brain assumes they are somewhere else and will be found later. The idea that the person is simply no longer in this dimensional world is not a logical answer to their absence.
Grief is a heart-wrenchingly painful problem for the brain to solve, and grieving necessitates learning to live in the world with the absence of someone you love deeply, who is ingrained in your understanding of the world. This means that for the brain, your loved one is simultaneously gone and also everlasting, and you are walking through two worlds at the same time. You are navigating your life despite the fact that they have been stolen from you, a premise that makes no sense, and that is both confusing and upsetting.
I wrote to Battersea because I wanted them to know how one little brindle staffy cross adopted all those years ago became the centre of someone’s universe.
She comes on walks with me, her velvet pouch in my pocket. She sits next to me in her bed beside the radiator while I’m at my desk. She comes to the sofa. She comes to my parents’ house. She comes to bed with me at night.
I have no dogs. I’m not a dog owner. I’m not a dog guardian. There is not a purpose to get out of bed. I am still Fifi and Lao’s though. I will learn to live for them.
I need to take a break from uploading my diaries.
Day 16: Milestones & Meaning
1 week since my baby girl looked into my eyes and took her last breath. As Justine said, Fifi wasn’t a part of my world, she was my whole world. I don’t know what to say. I found myself reenacting our movements from last week. Garden. Upstairs. Bed. Downstairs. Her final resting place.
The intense pain is not as constant now. It leaves space for emptiness and gloom. A progress, of sorts.
Yet I have re-found my meaning. For now, it is creating Fifi’s Scentventure Award. There are two parts to it: 1, a deeply meaningful way to honour Fifi’s life, and 2, help other guardians find peace in the knowledge that they gave their dog exactly what they needed.
Creating Fifi’s Award has also made me realise what a bloody great thing Scentventure is, for dogs and their humans. Even without Fifi’s specific Award, we are creating memories and improving our dogs’ lives all the time. The activities we do on a regular basis, for fun, for Partnership, or to help our dogs feel better about the world, is all naturally and intrinsically steeling us against the worst of the doubts, guilts, regrets and woulda shoulda couldas.
And maybe, between the pain and the emptiness, a new quiet space emerges - that holds purpose and whispers of healing, not just for myself but for the peace it may bring others as they walk their own path, through the valley of the shadow of death.