I first met Daisy (who was at this point unnamed) on the tarmac at the local airport in Orange when she was just 8 weeks old. The outrageously cute red cattle dog pup had been flown down from her birth town of Tenterfield. Such a wee little thing, slightly terrified, yet immediately reassured as soon as I cuddled her close on the short drive home. Upon arrival, she promptly did a wee on the kitchen floor before attaching herself to my then three-year-old son. It was he who decided she was as cute as a daisy, and so the name stuck.

Daisy was an explorer, getting her nose into everything and anything. I soon found myself spending weekends filling in holes, blocking off exit points and generally trying to convince her to not be such a pest. She was there when I dug in the garden, she was there when I lay in the sun, and she was there whenever I felt disconnected from the world. Always, she brought me back to the present moment with those golden eyes, filled with unyielding love. 

She coughed one Tuesday morning, and I thought nothing of it. I had just mowed the lawn and, as always, she was as close as she could be to me, even with the mower roaring. She was never fearful of such things, as she seemed to match her energy with mine (I’m convinced this is the case for all dogs). Naively, I assumed her cough was because she had a piece of grass stuck in the back of her throat. But the cough persisted. By Friday, we took her to the vets. They were worried she’d been poisoned, so standard tests and X-rays ensued. I knew she hadn’t been poisoned as our other dog, Goldie, was fine. 

When I returned to the vets that afternoon to pick her up, I was informed that Daisy had a cancerous tumour that was pushing on her throat. I was dumbfounded. Aside from her cough, she had been fine just the day before, running after the ball like a puppy, despite her 11 years of age. At home, I broke the news to the rest of the family, and while there was still a glimmer of hope, we all prepared to say goodbye. 

Why is that so bloody hard? I have heard people say it’s “just” a dog, but anyone with a beloved pet knows there’s no “just” about it – they’re a huge, bonding part of the family. They give so freely, so willingly of their love that we just take it for granted. And then they’re gone. On Sunday morning I knew the time had come. Her breathing had become laboured, she was not eating or moving, and she was exhausted simply from trying to give us even more of her love. We each spent some quality time with her before I took her to the vet.

That day I did have a moment of pure rage – a European Wasp was buzzing about trying to get in the back door as I was taking Daisy out, and I flipped out good and proper. Completely lost it, swearing profanities at the wasp. I was furious that it, a pointless pest, would get to live while an animal that adds so much to the world was about to die. The wasp, of course, was unfazed by my outburst.

The vet was amazing, she gave Daisy a sedative to allow her to rest so we could say goodbye, and as I stared deep into her eyes, I full and proper ugly cried, with shoulder-shaking sobs I simply did not expect. Finally, my bestie was gone, taken way too early at 11 human years but giving me and my family all her love. What a gift.