The Irreplaceable Dog: Life after loss

A one of a kind. The biggest pub dog. A gentle giant. The meaning of home.

If you were lucky enough to have met Doug, you’ll know he defined the word special. He loved everyone, always. He lived for somebody saying, “Oh, can I say hello?” or “Look, it’s Doug!” If attention was on offer, he was all in.

Douglas: The Baby Bear

I love how loved he was. No matter where we went or how far we traveled, Doug was a showstopper. People remembered him. They looked for him. They smiled when they saw him.

For eight and a half years, Doug was my entire world. Everything revolved around him.

What’s Doug having for breakfast? What’s Doug having for tea? Has Doug got enough duck necks? Is it going to be too hot for Doug today? Will Doug fit in this car? Will Doug manage more than a five-minute walk? Should we take Doug to the beach? We need to get back for Doug. Let’s buy Doug a new toy. (Seagull Steve — if you know, you know.)

No matter what was happening, Doug was at the center of it.

So what happens when they’re gone?

What do you do when your entire routine disappears in a flash?

The silence was deafening.

The sound of Doug’s snoring, once impossible to ignore, was suddenly replaced by an emptiness that echoed around the house. The floor was clean, no longer a minefield of slobber and drool. His collar and lead hung untouched in the cupboard. His morning walks no longer needed planning. The chicken and vegetables in the fridge were no longer needed for his meals.

There was no reason to rush home to “the Bear.”

What followed was an indescribable feeling of emptiness. An overwhelming urge to fill the bear-sized hole he’d left behind.

Doug & Seagull Steve

And then came the thought.

I want another dog.

It hit hard.

The guilt hit even harder.

Am I ready, or am I just grieving?

Am I trying to fill a void that can never really be filled?

Is it too soon?

What will people think?

And perhaps the hardest question of all…

Am I trying to replace Doug?

The answer was simple.

No.

Doug is, and always will be, irreplaceable.

There will never be another Doug. There will never be another gentle giant who stopped traffic, stole hearts wherever he went, and somehow made an entire house feel like home just by being in it.

But all the love I gave him every day was still there.

It had nowhere to go.

The routines were gone. The walks were gone. The feeding times, the muddy paws, the giant beds taking up half the room, the slobber on every clean outfit I owned. All gone.

But the love remained.

Charlie: My first irreplaceable dog

Matt and I used to joke that one day we’d get a Retriever and finally have a dog that walked like a “normal” dog. A dog that didn’t stop every five minutes to sniff the breeze, lie down in the middle of a walk, or carefully consider whether moving was really necessary.

Getting another dog was never the question.

The question was whether we were ready.

Were we ready to have our lives turned upside down again? Were we ready for sleepless nights, shark-like puppy teeth, toilet training and chaos? Most importantly, were we ready to welcome a completely innocent little creature into our lives without comparing him to Doug’s lazy, easy-going, unbothered attitude?

And the answer was yes.

Looking for puppies was bittersweet.

One minute I was excited, scrolling through photos and imagining the future. The next, I was overwhelmed with guilt and grief, thinking back to when I was searching for Doug all those years ago.

I’d close my phone and tell myself I’d look again later.

Sometimes later became the next day.

Then we found the litter.

We sent a message and then waited eagerly for the reply.

Yes, they had boys available.

Yes, we were welcome to come and meet the whole litter before making any decisions.

And yes, they wanted to make sure the litter was right for us just as much as they wanted to make sure we were right for them.

So, after a three-hour journey up north, we found ourselves sitting in a room full of eleven gorgeous four-week-old dark red Retriever puppies.

A teary-eyed Matt & Hank

Of course, we were instantly in love.

Matt arrived with a very simple shopping list:

“The darkest red one available.”

My shopping list was slightly different:

“The one I can work with in training.”

What we actually came home wanting was something neither of us had expected.

The one with a little bit of Doug.

Not because we were looking to replace him. We weren’t.

But because certain things about Doug had become part of what we loved most about sharing our lives with a dog.

Instantly in love

Out of all eleven puppies, one stood out.

He was the biggest.

The chunkiest.

The greediest.

He had that same wonderfully squishy face that we had always loved so much about Doug, and right in the middle of his head was a tiny white patch shaped like a heart.

While his brothers and sisters were busy exploring, wrestling and causing chaos, he had his priorities firmly in order.

He was happy to stop for a cuddle with me and Matt, but only briefly. As soon as he’d said hello, he was straight back to following his mum around in search of more milk.

At four weeks old, food was clearly one of the most important things in his life.

Confident, chunky and completely unapologetic about his appetite, he waddled around as though he owned the place.

The moment we saw him, we both knew.

He was the one.

He had a name.

Hank Douglas Jones. (Yes, I give my dogs middle names.)

And in just a few weeks’ time, he would be coming home.

The three-hour drive back felt surreal.

The face that made our house a home

We couldn’t stop talking about the fact that we’d just spent an hour with eleven gorgeous puppies and that one of them was now ours.

One of those tiny puppies was already claiming a piece of our hearts.

Photos were sent to family members who had been eagerly waiting to hear whether we’d found “the one”. Messages came flooding back. Everyone was excited.

And for a little while, we were too.

But then we pulled onto the driveway.

Reality hit.

We were still coming home to an empty house.

Seagull Steve wasn’t about to be thrust into our faces the second we walked through the door. There was no giant head waiting at the window. No deafening snoring. No Bear.

The excitement faded and the guilt crept back in.

Tears flowed.

What if Hank is too different?

What if I don’t love him the way I love Doug?

I knew he wasn’t the same. I knew he wasn’t a replacement. But grief isn’t always logical, and being human means comparisons creep in whether we want them to or not.

More than anything, I wanted him to be un-apologetically Hank.

No expectations.

No pressure.

No spending his life trying to live up to a dog who came before him.

But the truth is, comparisons will always happen.

I compared Doug to my first dog, Charlie, all the time.

Not because one was better than the other. Not because I wished Doug was Charlie.

I compared them because that’s what we do when we love and remember.

We tell stories.

We laugh about the good, the bad and the ridiculous.

We remember the things that made them uniquely them.

And one day, I’m sure I’ll find myself saying, “Doug never did that,” followed shortly by, “Neither did Charlie.”

Hank: Our next chapter

Not because Hank isn't enough.

But because every dog leaves their own mark on your heart.

The truth is, a new dog doesn't replace the one you've lost.

Doug is irreplaceable.

Charlie is irreplaceable.

One day, Hank will be too.

A new dog isn't a replacement for the love you had.

It's an extension of it.

A new chapter in a story that never really ended.