There is an unwelcome quietness in our home. It’s not a peaceful quiet, it’s an empty quiet.

Whenever I hear a sound now, I quickly look behind me, expecting to see a bundle of furry love looking up at me, but instead there’s nothing.

The spot he used to occupy at my feet is empty.

The spot he used to occupy in my heart is hurting.

Our beautiful cocker spaniel, Sammy, left us last week and the amount of grief I feel is startling.

Some will say, “he’s only a dog, at least it’s not your child”.  Granted, this is true. However the loss I feel is no less. Grief is grief; it’s as simple as that.

Sammy was an important member of our family. He was loved by all of us. He loved us back. The love we all felt for him was no less than the love we feel for each other.

We are a blended family, I have two sons and my husband has two daughters. Sammy was the one thing we all shared. He closed the circle on our family, and the impact of that can never be underestimated.

Everyone who knows us knew Sammy. Where we were, so was he.

He had the ability to make grown men drop to the floor on sight, to give him a cuddle. I often caught my sons or husband lying on the floor with him, whispering I love you into his big velvety ears.

My husband and I spent an inordinate amount of time looking at him and talking about him … okay it was possibly just me, and my husband was often reluctantly drawn into the conversation while trying to watch football or cricket.

Sammy was a confidant to my sons, who were in their early teenage years when he arrived. He provided them both with much solace as they navigated the murky waters of growing up. To say he kept one of them from going off the rails would be an understatement. He was always there for both of them when times were tough. He always had a smile, a bum wiggle and so much love to give, which increased tenfold if a treat was involved.

Speaking of treats, he had my sons friends wrapped around his big wooly paws. Whenever they would arrive, he would bark at them, leading them to kitchen cupboard, pushing it open with his foot and would stare them down until they gave him a treat. Given the amount of teenagers dropping in, on any day he could have conned them into giving him more treats than any dog needs.

He hated harsh words, tears, yelling and tension. He felt our upset deeply. He would sneak off to the farthest corner of the house and lie there until the tension eased. He was sensitive to all of our feelings.

As much as he loved us all, he was mine. He relied on me for everything. For ten years I looked after his every need. I showered him with my love, every single day.

Every night I went to sleep to the sound of his breathing as he lay in his bed on the floor next to me.  Every morning I woke to the sound of him yawning, loudly.

All of my daily rituals involved him. He was always at my side. He knew what I meant when I asked him if he wanted to help me hang out the washing. He would rush downstairs when I came home with the shopping and beg to carry an item upstairs gently in his mouth. I could talk to him and he understood me.

I knew what he wanted just by the way he looked at me. I knew his toilet look. His thirsty look. His hungry look. His “surely it is time for a treat” look. He had different barks for different things. I knew them too.

He was also naughty and messy. During his first few years he ate all the television remote controls and any mobile phones left on the coffee table. He destroyed every single pair of shoes I owned and he chewed through every bra I left on the floor.

We had to keep any food item on the bench at least thirty centimetres from the edge, or we’d find them eaten or shredded on the carpet in the good room.

If he ever needed to throw up, it would always be on the carpet. Every. Single. Time. If he ever needed to go to the toilet when we were out, granted it was rare, it would either be on the carpet or on the bed in the spare room.

Instead of swallowing the water in his mouth when he finished a drink, he would dribble it across the room. Our floors were always a mess.

He was extremely expensive. Food, toys, doggy day care and vet bills.  Oh the vet bills.

Over the last two years there was a very expensive knee reconstruction, an eye lift (yes you did read that correctly), then two major operations to remove tumours, chemotherapy and ongoing palliative care.

People say, why? Why would you spend so much money on a dog? I say, why not?

Owning a dog is a lifetime commitment. A dog isn’t something you can discard when they get sick or you tire of them. They can’t survive without your care and love, so you give it to them. They give you their heart. You give them yours all the while knowing they are going to break it one day. That’s love.

His last day with us will always be a special memory. If saying goodbye to someone you love can be beautiful, this was.

He spent time hanging out at home with the boys and I, getting lots of cuddles eating as many treats as he wanted. At the vet, my husband, step daughter and I were all sitting on the floor with him. He was comfortable on his favourite blanket, eating liver treats straight from the jar. Tegan, our vet, was kind and caring and gave us plenty of time to say goodbye.  Sammy loved treats and right up until his last breath he was sniffing out crumbs of the liver treats. He died how he lived his life … happy and eating.

Will I ever own another dog? I don’t know. Right now, Sammy is the dog love of my life and I can’t imagine giving my heart to another. So for now I will continue to grieve his loss.

Please don’t tell me to get over it and that he was only a dog. He was so much more, and our lives are richer for him being a big part of our family.

He was pure joy. He found joy in everyone and everything. That’s the beauty of a happy and loved dog. We humans have so much to learn from our dogs … especially about joy and living in the moment.