I’ve thought a lot about whether to write this one. It’s personal. It’s raw. But I know how many dog owners go through this quietly, behind closed doors. Trying to care for a dog who’s not eating, not quite themselves, and slipping away bit by bit.

These were Eric’s final weeks. At the time I did not realise this though.
And they were some of the hardest I’ve ever lived through.

When You Know Something’s Not Right

Eric had a heart condition, MVD which is unfortunately common in King Charles Cavaliers.

I’d known that for about three years. But he’d always been fine. A bit of a fuss-pot, sure. Loved his routine. But he was stable, happy, and living life.

Then, suddenly, things started to change.

He began going off his food. Nothing dramatic at first, just a bit picky. Not himself. I had gone away for the weekend so ordered some of his favourite Different Dog food, as I know he will always eat this. But I came back after he weekend he had hardly eaten.

I know he can eat less when I go away, but not like this.

He started refusing things completely. I tried everything. Boiled chicken. Roast beef. Chicken mince. Meatballs. I remember one moment where I sat on the floor with him, just trying to get something in him. The tiniest mouthful felt like a win.

I became his full-time chef. I’d batch cook for him. Reheat things in little trays like he was in a five-star dog hotel. I even remember offering food on the floor because sometimes he’d refuse his bowl but eat it straight away if I dropped it. He had always been like that, never a fan of the bowl. That was Eric.

It felt like every day was a guessing game, what would he eat? What would he turn his nose up at? One day he’d eat cooked food, the next he wouldn’t. He’d eat off the floor, but not from my hand. He’d sniff something, turn away, then come back an hour later and eat it all.

Or not at all. There was no pattern. No rules. Just him. Just Eric.

Trying to Hold On

We had a referral booked to see the heart specialist, it was set for the following week. But I had a feeling. Deep down I knew we might not get there. I even said to someone, “If I can’t get him to eat, I don’t think we’ll make it.”

And yet, in between the hard days, he’d give me glimpses of himself.
A little bark. A nudge for a fuss. The way he jumped on the bed for a cuddle at 4:30am when he usually couldn’t care less about being close.

I clung to those glimpses.
Every time he ate, I let out a breath I didn’t realise I’d been holding.
And when he didn’t, I panicked, quietly. Silently. Because what else could I do?

We were walking less, resting more. He’d still come out wouldn’t be left behaving, wanted to be part of things, but he wasn’t himself. Slower. Quieter. And yet somehow still watching everything.

Some walks he was just his normal self, others he was slow and I would cut the walk short. Everything in those last 4 weeks revolved around his needs.

That final walk at Clumber Park he let me carry him. Wanted me to carry him. And that told me everything. Eric never wanted to be picked up. We had a deal: I’d only lift him if he put his front legs on my arm and gave me the okay.

But that day? He didn’t want Lorraine to carry him. He wanted me.

The Exhaustion No One Sees

It’s hard to explain how much energy goes into trying to keep a dog comfortable when they’re fading. Especially a dog who won’t eat. You’re constantly thinking, planning, prepping, worrying. You second guess everything.

Life goes on hold, I cancelled all my plans as I knew I needed to keep stress levels down for his heart and that I was hard enough for me to get him to eat, I wouldn’t put that pressure on anyone else.

You wake up hoping for a better day.
You go to bed wondering if you missed something.
You notice every slight change in breathing, coughing, breathing, weight, mood, appetite.
You cook things you hope they’ll like, only for it to go untouched.
You try not to panic when they refuse the next meal. And the next.

You celebrate tiny wins, a mouthful, a tail wag, a slightly better poo.
You live on edge, even when nothing obvious is happening.

I remember those early mornings when he started waking me up the 4am nudges, the need for reassurance.

He wasn’t that kind of dog before. But suddenly he needed me close. He’d curl up tight against me, then shift and come back. He was clingy. He was tired. He just didn’t feel right.

Even giving medication became a battle. He started to lose trust in me, and I hated that. I didn’t know how we’d manage years of this if he was already beginning to pull away.

But we weren’t going to get years.

I’m Glad I Got to Be His Person

In those final weeks, I kept thinking I just want him to know how loved he is.

So I gave him the food he loved (or used to love). I let him lie on the sofa when he wanted. I didn’t push walks. I stayed close. I listened. I did what he needed, not what I wanted.

And even though my heart was breaking every single day, I’m grateful.

Grateful that his passing was peaceful. That it wasn’t at a vet’s. That he wasn’t frightened or stressed. That he was with people who loved him, people he chose.

If You’re Going Through This…

If you’re reading this while going through something similar, I want you to know I see you.

Caring for a dog in their final weeks is one of the hardest things you’ll ever do. It’s messy, emotional, exhausting, and uncertain. It’s full of guilt and doubt and second guessing. But it’s also one of the biggest acts of love.

You’re doing your best.
And that’s enough.