Tag Archives: Pet loss

The Sad Truth.

Funny how just when you think you are accepting of the fact your much loved pet has gone, something unexpected reminds you of them, and the pain of losing our four legged friend wells up as fresh as a daisy and stabs at your heart like it happened only yesterday.

This happened to me today, but more upsettingly, to my four-year-old daughter too.

We were on the field half way through our usual walk with the hounds and having a lovely time splashing in our wellies and watching the dogs run around. I happened to be looking directly at my daughters face when I saw it light up. She was looking past me – her eyes shone and a huge grin spread across her face.

“MUMMY IT’S FIZZ! FIZZ IS BACK!” And she runs with all her heart to the belgian shepherd that has appeared a few meters away from us, and happens to be the spitting image of our lovely lad Fizz who we sadly lost last December, aged 14.

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The resemblance is so uncanny I hear myself gasp out loud before I run after her as she calls his name.

“FIIIIIIIZZ, FIZZ!”

I catch her up as we arrive at the dog – a lovely bitch Groenendael Belgian – and I stop her just before she tries to give it a hug. I explain as gently as I can that it isn’t Fizz. That this dog is a girl not a boy, that she doesn’t have a broken ear like Fizz did, and that she has a white spot on her chest. The lovely lady who owns her tells my daughter the dog’s name and is very kind, but my poor little girls runs off in floods of tears.

I find myself fighting a few tears back myself.

We sit together under a tree till the tears have run dry and the impossible questions about death that only a child can ask are answered as best I can. She astounds me by showing better understanding than I give her credit for: “Maybe Fizz has gone to the stars because he knew it was Annabel’s turn.”

Fizz was our daughter’s first introduction to how a dog should be. He was a gentleman. His tolerance of her as she grew up was unwavering, and he taught her a healthy respect and a deep love for dogs.

I may have my hands full with our current beautiful hounds – but I still miss him

Today just reminded me how much.

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You can read about how we explained the loss of Fizz here .

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You Have Only Us – A Post For Fizz

This was written over on my parenting blog last year (WaterBirthPlease) but now I write a pet blog too, it seems appropriate to share it again with a new audience. I’m sure a lot of people who have older pets will identify with it. . .

Fizz x

Today my lad, you fell over. And it broke my heart just a little. Oh I knew you were getting older, but maybe I’d got too used to telling fellow dog walkers your age, then standing back and looking proudly at you as they marvelled in how young you seemed. I was just saying a number, not really comprehending your age.

The fall didn’t hurt you. You looked to me a little panicked, but with a reassuring word, and a little help, you recovered yourself and you soon forgot. I didn’t forget though. You are a dog that could walk all day long – a companion for my husband on his long treks up hills and peaks. You have climbed mountains and run for hours with the wind in your fur and joy in your eyes. You swam rivers, chased squirrels, and fetched sticks . . . over . . . and over . . . and over.

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But today, you ran up the garden steps in your glee to greet me, and your wobbly old hips gave way a little, and you fell. Even the people that love me most in the world never run to me in shear joy the way my dogs do, each and every time I see them.

When I have a bad day, I can speak to my husband, or a friend, or a relative.
You have only us.
If I am ill, I can call a doctor, take a painkiller, maybe call family for sympathy. . .

You have only us.
If I am bored, I have friends, relations, a daughter, a husband, colleagues, books, films, neighbours, phone calls, and video calls. . .
You have only us.
I’d like to say sorry Fizz, for the times I forget this, and for the times I can’t give you as much attention as you deserve. I’m sorry too for when I may get a little impatient, forgetting your hearing is bad now, when you have shown us and our little tail-pulling toddler nothing but patience. (Thank you for that.)

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And yet you never tire of us. Your trust and love is unwavering, despite not all your dealings with the human race being happy ones. A gentler soul than any person I know, you are a credit to the canine race and we are blessed to have you. Sometimes when I lie by you, I like to trace my finger along your scars. Your awful mystery scars. Because I like to know that that little bit of you has also known the touch of kindness, not just cruelty.

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You are at least 13 now my lad. Your have arthritis and cataracts. You are slowing down, but there is a puppy in there still! The walks may be shorter now, but you relish them. You still put up a pretty sparky chase to your Greyhound companion. You still surprise people when I tell them your age, and you still have the wind in your fur and joy in your eyes.

Long may that continue, my lovely gentleman.

My friend.

Long may we be there to catch you when you fall.

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Sadly, Fizz’s old legs finally gave up on him just before Christmas and we said goodbye to one of the best dogs in the world. We still miss him.

Night night God bless my lad x

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