It goes without saying that dogs are one of life’s greatest joys. If you had £1 for every time you’d pointed at a dog and said to the person next to you (or, you know, yourself) “Oh my god, look at that dog!”, I’m confident we could both dine on a Greggs vegan steak bake every day for a year. At least.
We’re a nation of dog lovers. But here’s the thing: unless you adopt, buy, rescue, or steal (your entry into dog ownership is up to you, I’m not here to judge) your dog the day before you die, it’s highly probable that you, with your average lifespan of 80 years, are going to outlive them. So the moment you decide you’re bringing home an animal who will depend on you, dote on you and love you more than anyone has ever loved you, you’re essentially signing yourself up for guaranteed heartbreak.
And six months ago, my deadline of said guaranteed heartbreak was brought forward when my mum called with the crushing news that our family dog, Lola, had fallen asleep for the last time.
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