#49 Saying Goodbye to my dog

On losing a pet but gaining perspective

It was the end of Storm Darragh and across the UK, rivers overflowed, trees toppled, and the roads lay empty under sheets of wind and rain late into the night. Inside my house, another storm was brewing. Here I was stuck on the sofa, contorted into a position my post-surgery neck would allow. Days earlier, I’d had a spinal fusion, and the recovery was as uncomfortable as expected. Yet, that night, my discomfort was eclipsed by a deeper sense of unease.

Eli, our dog of 11 years, was struggling again. He was a Bassador - a Lab/Basset Hound mix with a mismatched frame—oversized head, stubby legs—and a look that had earned smiles or laughs on countless walks. I always told myself people laughed at him, not me - I hope that was true! In his latter years, he carried his age with quiet resilience, but nasal cancer had taken hold, leaving him weakened near the end. His new “brother,” Poe, a boisterous puppy, was both a joy and an irritation, something Eli endured with grace but the days were clearly getting harder for him. 

That night, I knew something was wrong when I heard Eli moving around strangely downstairs. He never wandered late at night. When I found him, he looked disorientated, breathing unevenly, blood trickling again from his nose. I settled us on the sofa—him on his blanket, me awkwardly beside him—and stayed with him. I didn't know what else to do but stay in a position that would have probably been against doctors orders. 

Outside, the storm howled. Inside, the room was dimly lit by a sparkling Christmas tree and all was silent except for Eli’s strained breathing. I sat with him, whispering soft reassurances that felt both necessary and inadequate. “It’s okay, I’m here,” I said, because it was all I could think to say. He seemed calmer, though his breathing slowed further as the hours passed. I didn’t sleep much. I just stayed.

By morning, I was certain he’d be gone. But Eli surprised us. He was still there, still holding on, and somehow managed to eat a little breakfast and even venture out for a walk (or W-A-L-K as we used to call it). On his final walk in his favourite park, Eli wandered past a freshly fallen tree as the light of the post-storm day was dawning. A birch that had been a rooted presence in the landscape was suddenly in its final hour.

After the walk, we called the children into the living room, giving them time to say goodbye—each in their own way. Words, hugs, tears, silence. By 10 a.m., when the vet’s office opened, it was time to make the call.

The drive to the vet with Leah felt surreal. It was one of my first times out since surgery, my body still sore, my mind foggy from medication. Eli lay quietly in the back, not fighting the trip. The vet took one look at him and we confirmed there was no other option. Leah couldn’t stay for this part, so it was just me and Eli in the small, sterile room.

A cannula was fitted—ironically similar to the one I’d had days before. The vet gave me a moment, and I held Eli close, repeating the same words I’d whispered through the night: “It’s okay, I’m here.” He slipped away quietly. The vet confirmed it, nodding softly. “He’s gone.”

I stayed for a moment, unsure how to leave. Finally, I managed a single word: thank you.

The walk back through the waiting room was disconcerting. There was no mistaking what had just happened to every onlooker: the empty lead in my hand, the empty feeling that seemed to settle in my chest. Everyone in the waiting room had total compassion and kindness. Some even shed a tear on Eli’s behalf. I found Leah and managed to whisper that he was gone. His pain was finally over. 

As we left the vets, we instinctively bought a treat for Poe—the young dog who, for all his chaos, had already become a part of our family. In the months leading up to this day, Poe had disrupted the house, chewed through shoes, and tested every bit of patience we had. Yet now, his energy offered a strange kind of comfort—a reminder that life pushes forward, no matter what we lose.

When the old and the new exist in the same space it can inevitably feel uncomfortable, messy, and awkward. You have to live with the legacy of your past and contend with the decisions of your present. In those moments it is easy to feel stuck in the tension of transition. And dogs, like some years, can bring this truth deeper into focus at times. 

Eli was more than a pet. He was constant. Faithful. A quiet presence who journeyed with our family with an almost human attentiveness. Whether sitting beside Leah as she wrote, resting near the children when they were upset, or dragging sticks far too big for his breed, his message was always the same: “I’m here.”

There’s an old photo (above) that captures the first day the kids met Eli in the Rescue Sanctuary—a moment that would mark the beginning of over a decade-long bond. Surrounded by laughter, curious hands reaching out, and wide-eyed excitement, Eli stood there quietly, taking it all in. This was the day he first said “I’m here” in his own unassuming way, a promise he would keep for years to come. That photo reminds me of a time when the children were smaller, their faces younger but unmistakably familiar, each at a different stage of growing up—something Eli would quietly do alongside them.

And that’s what I could give back to him in the end. No grand gestures, no perfect words—just presence.

In the midst of post-surgery recovery (which, thankfully, is going remarkably well), it feels like an unusual way to step into December. But perhaps it’s not so out of step with the season as it first seems. Advent, after all, is supposed to be a time of waiting, healing, and quiet preparation—we just sometimes forget what it is meant for. 

Advent comes to us in the storms, the stillness, and the spaces of loss where words feel inadequate. It’s a season that speaks to our deepest ache for comfort, hope, and restoration.

In the same way a quiet “I’m here” brings reassurance, Advent reminds us that God is present. Emmanuel—God with us—isn’t just a promise for Christmas morning; it’s a reality we can lean on every day, especially when life feels fragile or uncertain.

God’s arrival isn’t flashy or grand. It doesn’t remove the storms. Instead, His presence meets us where we are, whispering the same simple truth we need to hear: “It’s okay, I’m here.”

So, as this season unfolds, may you find space to reflect, hold on, and wait.The old has passed—grieve it fully. But the new has arrived—embrace it wholeheartedly.

May you remember that even in letting go, there is room for hope. 

And may you hear, deep in your heart, the quiet promise of Advent even in suffering: God is still here.