WHEN LOVE MEANT LETTING GO: GOODBYE, MY DEAR FRIEND. THANK YOU FOR IT ALL.
I’ve been sat here for ages, scrambling for the right words—any words—to capture this tangled mess of emotions. How do you explain a heart that’s shattered yet brimming with gratitude? How do you bid farewell to a companion who never uttered a word but understood you better than anyone?
Yesterday, I said goodbye to my dog, Alfie. My sidekick. My scruffy shadow. The little ball of fur who turned our house into a home and brightened every day for 14 years.
Now, the silence is deafening. No patter of paws on the floorboards. No enthusiastic thump of his tail against the sofa when I walk in. No nudge from his wet nose when I’ve been glued to my laptop too long. Just… quiet. A hollowness that reminds me he’s gone—and yet, somehow, still here.
Alfie crashed into my life when I didn’t even know I needed rescuing. Fresh out of uni, I’d moved into my first flat in Manchester, buzzing with independence but secretly clueless. There he was at the shelter—a scruffy, biscuit-coloured pup with ears too big for his head and eyes that held the universe. The second he licked my hand, that was it.
I didn’t pick Alfie. He picked me.
That first night, he whined until I caved and let him hog the bed. From then on, he was my shadow. Cooking, cleaning, ugly-crying over telly dramas—Alfie was there. Life could be a proper mess, but he didn’t care. He never needed me to have it all sorted. Just to be there. And in return? He gave me the kind of love that doesn’t come with conditions or complaints.
Alfie had a knack for turning the mundane into magic.
He’d lose his mind over a squeaky hedgehog toy. Spin in circles after his own tail like it was an Olympic sport. Press his snout to the window during rainstorms, utterly perplexed by the weather.
Mornings, he’d wait by the curtains for me to open them so he could bark at pigeons. Nights, he’d flop onto my feet as if to say, “We survived another one, mate.”
He wasn’t just a pet—he was the steady beat of my everyday. A warm, wagging constant. A mate who never asked for more than a chin scratch and the occasional stolen crisp.
This past year, Alfie slowed down. The zoomies faded into gentle ambles. He napped more, trotted slower. His once-sharp eyes grew cloudy; his ears didn’t perk at the postman’s knock.
At first, I told myself it was just age—perfectly normal. But then he turned his nose up at sausages (the horror). Stopped meeting me at the door. Had accidents on the rug, which he’d never done before. And that’s when the dread settled in my stomach like a stone.
Vet trips became routine. Pills, special diets, hopeful blood tests. Some days were brighter, and I clung to them. But the truth was plain: Alfie was exhausted.
Last week, he refused food entirely. Just curled up, watching me with those same knowing eyes—only now, they were tired.
One night, I lay beside him on the floor, stroking his scruffy ears, and whispered, “If you’re ready, it’s alright. I’ll be alright. Promise.”
Saying it nearly broke me.
The next morning, I made the call. Cradled him in his favourite tartan blanket, kissed his head a hundred times. Told him he was the best boy. That he’d done enough. That he could rest.
And in that quiet room, with some bloke’s acoustic playlist humming and my tears dripping onto his fur, Alfie slipped away. Softly. Sweetly. Just as he’d lived—full of love, without fuss.
The grief is a proper gut-punch. I still listen for his collar jingling. Reach for his lead by habit. Catch myself saving the last bite of toast for him. But he’s not there.
And yet… I sense him everywhere.
In the breeze through the kitchen window he loved to snooze by.
In the stupid little things—finding his tennis ball under the couch, smiling through tears.
In the sunspot on the carpet where he’d sprawl like a furry starfish.
When I’m at my lowest, it’s like he’s nudging me: “Keep going, you daft thing.”
Because Alfie never let a day pass without finding joy in *something*—a rogue crisp, a belly rub, a particularly interesting lamppost. And that’s what he’d want for me now.
If I could tell him one last thing? “Cheers, mate. For choosing me. For every wag, every stolen sock, every time you licked my face when I was down. For loving me on my worst days and celebrating the good ones. I’ll miss you forever—but I’ll carry you with me, always.”
Alfie, you weren’t just a dog. You were my best mate, my comfort, my tiny, hairy guardian. Life without you feels off-kilter, but I know you’re out there—chasing squirrels, ears flapping, forever young.
Thanks for being mine. I’ll love you always.
Till we meet again. ❤️🐾
To Anyone Who’s Loved and Lost a Pet:
If you’ve been here, you know this ache. How a chunk of your soul trots off with them. But remember—what you gave them? The cosy beds, the belly laughs, the “who’s a clever boy?” praise? That was *everything*. You were their whole world. And they bloody adored you for it.
It hurts this much because the love was real. Uncomplicated. A rare, precious thing.
So cry. Laugh at the daft memories. Talk about them like the legends they were. They mattered. They always will.
