It has been 4 weeks since you left me, my Little Eric.

Those 4 weeks feel a bit of a blur… but I have decided to share with you all my thoughts and feelings, in hope it may help someone else.

Or it may help you live in the moment with your dogs more, as time is so precious.

Below is what I wrote the day after he left me…. this has been one of the hardest posts I have ever had to write and I am in tears once again.

Time is a healer, I know this. But right now it is still hard and I miss him so much.

It’s little things that hit you hard, bumping into someone who doesn’t know and asks where he is.

The feeling you have that everyone has moved on, but you are stuck with this big hole missing in your life.

For others going through the same, I hear you, see you and I feel for you.

I wrote the below (and I have written more) as I don’t want to forget all the little things that made him, him. He was my special little Eric.

It wasn’t supposed to happen yet.
You’ve been taken from me far too soon.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, little man.
I can’t believe you’ve gone. It’s happened too quickly. I’m broken without you.

Eric took his last breath peacefully yesterday evening at his second home, Lorraine & Ollie’s. He was a dog of luxury on his final walk at Clumber Park, as I carried him the whole way round. If you knew Eric, you’d know he hated being picked up, let alone carried.

I hadn’t shared anything publicly, but he had been very poorly for the past six weeks. He’d hardly been eating and had gone into heart failure. I’ve known about his heart condition for three years, but until recently, he’d been doing okay.

It’s been really tough, exhausting, stressful, trying everything to get him to eat. Roast beef. A whole roast chicken. He had me as his personal chef.

We were due to see the specialist next week. But vets really stressed him out, and honestly, I’m so grateful it happened peacefully with friends he loved. If he’d been admitted to the vets, I don’t think he would have coped.

The Dog Who Came for the Weekend

Goodbye, little dude.
The little dog who was never supposed to be mine.
You came to stay for the weekend — and never left.

You didn’t suit your original name, Flynn — and Eric had already stuck. So, Eric you became. My Eric.

Everyone loved your name. Everyone loved you. You were such a character and Maisie’s partner-in-crime from the very beginning.

She accepted you straight away, as if you’d always been here. You snuggled up to her. Sat with her. Moved her out of the way when you wanted her spot and she always let you. You only had to stand next to her or do a big stretch and she’d shift for you.

I used to call you Maisie’s annoying little brother, chasing squirrels and then running right past where they’d actually gone.

It took you a long time to accept Envy, but when you did, you let her sit on you. I’d have to move her off you! The first time you played together in the garden made me so happy.

Even though you were my little problem child, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.
You taught me so much.

You came to me reactive to people and dogs, guarding everything, going from 0–100 in a flash. If someone had met you just a few years ago, they’d never believe that. You came such a long way. You found your place. Found your home. We just didn’t know it at first.

The Quiet

And now… it’s so quiet.
Painfully quiet.

You weren’t there to tell us it was bedtime last night.
I got your bedtime biscuit out and realised I only needed two.
You’d wait at the top of the stairs after refusing a wee, and run into bed the second you heard us coming — ready for your biscuit.
You had a bladder of steel, I always said.

No one curled up beside me in bed.
You should have been there, nudging for a fuss.
No party with the pillows. No snuggling into my pyjamas.
No pulling back the duvet so you could climb underneath.
My bed is too tidy now and it’s dos not feel right.

You used to fold yourself into the corner of the freshly made bed before I’d even finished making it, waiting to claim your spot.

Light paws on the stairs behind me — missing.
Your favourite spot on the sofa — empty.
I still haven’t sat in it….

I picked up your lead, you don’t need it anymore.

I wished for your barking this morning when we got to the walk.
It was too quiet.
I kept checking back for you, but you weren’t there.

Maisie was always close to you on walks since your cough got worse. I like to think she was taking care of you. She still looks around for you. We all do.

The girls were so quiet when I let them out the other night, no barking. Not like when you were here.

You’re not there at my feet on your cool mat while I dry my hair.
You’re not here to stop Dad reading his paper, barking at him to say, “Let’s move!”
You used to stand with him in the kitchen while he washed up, watching his every move. I’m sure you always got secret extra treats off him. I didn’t mind.

You and Dad had a bond. I always said you were his dog more than mine. But in the past few years, you became more mine again. Always by my side.

Your Ovo eggs are lying around the house with no one to play with them. The girls won’t touch them. They were yours. Even the noisy duck Dad got you at Christmas that drove us all mad, it’s still lying there untouched.

There are five dog beds in the house now, and I can’t part with a single one. I know it’s too many. But I’m not ready to let any of them go.

I still leave the bathroom door open. Just in case you sneak past like you used to — silent, quick, barely making a sound.

What You Were to Us

You slept in funny positions, like a little human sometimes. I used to call you my little croissant.
You talked to me with your grumbles, your stretches, the strange little noises that only made sense to us.
You helped me with yoga.
You came on runs.
You loved your walks, but probably loved your bed more.

You used to nudge the phone out of my hand when you wanted attention.
You’d eat your dinner one bit of veg at a time, carrying each piece over to your bed.
You’d eat your food off the floor, never quite took to bowls.
Even as a puppy, I’d get your food ready and you’d run to the living room instead of your bowl.

You went through phases from loving raw food, but only if it had tripe in it.
You loved your veg so much, I used to joke you were vegetarian.

You used to jump around me on walks when you were hungry, your way of asking to be fed.
We had our own ways of communicating, just me and you.

When you let me pick you up, I knew something was wrong. We had an agreement, front legs only unless you said otherwise.
That final day, you wanted me to carry you. Not even Lorraine.
I should’ve known how poorly you felt.

You never sat on my lap at my desk, but when you were unwell, you did. Same with Mum. You’d climb on her too, and we’d both know you didn’t feel well.
Or you’d be outside eating grass and not want to come in, trying to fix yourself.

I Miss You So Much

6 o’clock came and went, your playtime.
No Ovo eggs. No squeaky duck. No bark. Just silence.

You gave me so many extra cuddles those final mornings.
Jumping on the bed at 4:30am, nudging me for more. You wanted to be close. I knew then you were feeling poorly, you’d never needed so much reassurance before.

I’m so glad I made the most of those cuddles. I didn’t know how precious they’d become.

There was a time we went camping with Lorraine, I made the tent all cosy with foam pads and blankets. You went straight to the corner, dug it all up, and slept on the plastic floor. Typical Eric.

I know you were tired. I know you were struggling. I know the tablets were becoming too much and I hated what it was doing to your trust in me. I didn’t know how we’d have managed long-term.

Lorraine said to me, “You’ve lost a piece of yourself.”
And she’s right. I have.
You were there through everything. You — and the girls — got me through some very tough times.
You needed me as much as I needed you.

You didn’t get the chance to grow old.
But you would have made the best little grumpy old man.

If You’re Reading This…

Go and give your dog an extra cuddle.
Because you never know when it’ll be the last.

Goodbye, my little man.
My little Eric.