Last night my little dog collapsed. As soon as I saw her this morning I knew that she was mostly somewhere else, in her mind, which sounds stupid but I’m convinced of it. An 8.30am trip to the vet clinic confirmed suspicions: two huge tumours, and no hope.

It was entirely unexpected.

Daisy was my dog and I freely admit that I am (was?) absolutely silly about her. Dogs have been such a huge, defining part of my life that it’s so hard to explain to other people what they—and particularly Daisy—mean to me. She was the Timmy to my George and she lived an absolutely ridiculously happy life, and she made me absolutely ridiculously happy. That’s about as good as life with dogs can get, I reckon. People tend to react in a similar way to the deaths of other people’s dogs: mild sympathy, and a reassurance that of course they know how rotten you feel. Which is nonsense, since nobody ever loves their pets as much as you do, and nobody can possibly understand how awful you feel. And of course there’s the unspoken but she’s just an animal which lands you with the fun of feeling like a socially-problematic idiot for getting so upset in the first place. Or perhaps that’s just me.

I’m an agnostic atheist and I find it difficult to wrap my head around death, though I’ve experienced my fair share (vicariously, you’ll be glad to know). I have vague hopes and theories about something related to but not quite quantum entanglement, but that’s about as far as it goes.

So what next? Dr Hugh Wirth always recommends getting a new dog as quickly as possible, and that’s what I want to do, but I don’t think it’s what I should do. Daisy’s death marks the end of my extended, dog-filled childhood (I’m 23, for the record, so it might be coming a little late). In some ways she’s been a bouncing, tail-wagging, entirely non-judgmental security blanket; I think it might be a good idea for me to let that go, at least for a while.

In the mean time—well, a dashed good cry never hurt anyone.