When I got up this morning the sun was streaming through the blinds and the kitchen light was on, left to provide a glow in case our boy, with his failing eyesight and mild dementia, should wake in the night and wander off to his bed in the sitting room. One of a hundred ways in which I have already noticed how he has permeated every molecule of our beings.

How we’d unlock the door and turn to pick him up when the stairs became too much for him, how we’d put an extra piece of fish or egg on for him when we were cooking, or stoop to refresh his water bowl when we turned on the tap to fill the kettle, the dozen or so times I’d look over at his bed in the evening to check he was okay. Now that bed is empty. No sound of claws on the floorboards as he faithfully follows you to the loo, no comical face appearing round the side of the fridge when you’ve crept to the kitchen whilst he was snoring, no head lifting to see if you’ve got good snacks when you walk in to the room.

Just 15 days short of our fourth Curlyversary our boy is gone.

Yesterday, as his soft furry head lowered on to my hand on the vet’s table and I kissed the top of his nose one last time, I gave thanks for the day I was too polite to say I wasn’t sure he was right for me when I went to meet him, the day I’d dragged my husband 175 miles to see a 10-year-old dog that ‘no-one but us would want’, a dog that didn’t even acknowledge our presence when he walked in, let alone come bounding over.

An hour later I was sitting in the passenger seat of our Fiat, constantly looking back over my shoulder at the ball of fluff on our back seat.

It looked grumpy. And sad. It wasn’t the cute, waggy-tailed dog I’d always imagined owning. I secretly thought I’d been too hasty when I said we’d take him. I didn’t know then that it was fate, that we were perfectly matched, and that a few weeks later we would fall, head over heels, totally and utterly, down the slippery slope of love and it would be quite impossible to climb back up and out of it ever again.

When we got him home we were excited, taking photos of his poor bemused face, admiring the bushy eyebrows that looked just like my dear departed dad’s. Now that I know that dear little face inside out I can’t bear to look at those first pictures; what I see in them now makes my stomach churn. My dog was then still very much someone else’s, a hound who’d spent 10 years loyally sitting by his master’s side, only to wake one day and find she was gone – he just happened to be standing in my sitting room.

For those first few days it was weird. I had waited all my adult life for my own dog, six years from the day my cat-loving husband said if I gave up smoking we could get one. And there he was.

Every night for weeks he woke us repeatedly, jumping on to the sofa and scratching it with all his might. We tried Super Nanny’s tricks, putting him straight back to bed, no eye contact, no talking, no cuddles. Eventually he gave up but he was never happy at night-time until we accidentally stumbled upon the solution. I bought a dog mattress but decided to return it so left it in the bedroom until I had time. Curly clambered on and claimed it. From then on he slept there peacefully every night. Sometimes I’d wake to the sound of both him and my husband snoring gently in harmony.
All he ever wanted was to be close to us.

Now I know that, I berate myself for making a stupid mistake. Six months in we left him unattended in a holiday cottage whilst we went to get a cup of tea. We stood across the street and listened as he ran up and down three flights of stairs desperately searching for us, the sheer terror of being abandoned again painfully evident in his bark.

We don’t know how long he was left alone when his owner died. We couldn’t comprehend his fear. But after a few more episodes and the discovery of his heart condition we abandoned the training at the point where I could put the recycling out without him reaching full-scale panic. He only had a few years left, we reasoned, how hard would it be to adjust our lives and never leave him alone?

And so our generous friends sent the invites as two + one.
Four feet, four paws.

Curly attended two weddings, two wakes, a Baptism, the cinema, exhibitions, and a car test drive where he manoeuvred himself on to the saleswoman’s lap so he could see out the window. He came to beauty salons and shops, cafes and pubs, to welcome new babies and sit with those who were about to leave this world. And he behaved impeccably throughout.

I’m thankful that in spite of all those days when we couldn’t go for a decent walk or sit in the sunshine because it was too much for his old bones, all those days we couldn’t socialise together, go on dates or travel, all the lovely things we missed out on and the sacrifices we made, I still noticed the moments when this gentle soul enriched my life.

Nothing in life gave me more joy than watching his ears bounce up and down as he trotted along the seafront, the way he seemed to relish being buffeted by the wind as much as I did, or the perfect shadow matching his steps when the sun was just so.
I loved seeing him jump about like a baby goat when he felt sand underneath his feet, his stubby tail wagging when he found a piece of fish we’d hidden for a game of hide-and-seek, hearing the noises he made when I was on work calls and he was dreaming, his furry feet twitching as ran free of arthritis whilst sound asleep in his bed, feeling the weight of his muzzle on my lap when I was engrossed in my computer and he decided it was time for tea.

Now those things are just memories, temporarily tainted by the distress of seeing his bed on top of a pile of other people’s junk at the tip, remembering how his velvety ear used to flop over the side it when he was tired; tainted by the horrible realization that he’d been so ill for such a long time, but remembering how, still, he quietly came everywhere we went; tainted by the burning pain of having to leave his lifeless body behind when we said goodbye and stepped out in to the sunshine on his last day, remembering how his beautiful black eyes locked on mine as he sank down on the table after one last biscuit from the vet’s pocket.

Whoever knew that this boy, who I was so unsure of when we first met, would become so much a part of me. My anam cara, my soul friend.

It feels like my ribs are caving in and piercing my lungs when I think about him; when I think that I didn’t give him enough time, I didn’t give him enough porridge, and I didn’t get one more day to enjoy an unexpected cuddle as another cup of tea went cold on the coffee table.

But I know my Curly Wurly, my Chumpy, my Bian, my Koweth, my Noodles, my Boodie, my Boise, knew without a shadow of a doubt that I loved him with every tiny fragment of my heart. And I always will.