I took January off.

Not much social media. No hot takes. No commentary. Just quiet.

It felt needed. A reset. A pause before the year properly began.

And then February arrived with a gut punch I never saw coming.

February 7th – Within 24 hours, my little pal Oscar was gone.

Sudden illness. A trip to the vet that I assumed would end with him trotting back out the door beside me. Instead, I came home without him.

There are moments in life when something shifts so quickly that your body cannot catch up.

This was one of them.

More Than a Dog

My mum and I adopted Oscar when he was 11 weeks old from North West SPCA.

We rescued him.

At least that’s what the paperwork said.

The truth is, he rescued me.

He came into my life almost five years to the day after my dad died. I didn’t fully understand at the time what that timing meant. I just knew this tiny bundle of attitude had arrived in our home and somehow shifted the air.

Grief changes the shape of a house.

Oscar filled spaces that had felt too wide.

To anyone who has never loved an animal like this, it might sound dramatic.

But Oscar was not “just a dog”.

He was my companion.

A small dog with the biggest personality you could imagine. There was never any question who ran this house. He was the king of this kingdom. I just paid the mortgage.

He had stealth skills that would impress the SAS. I could open a packet of biscuits in what I believed was silence, and somehow he would appear beside me like a furry ninja.

Yet when I called his name and gave a command he had absolutely heard, he would suddenly develop selective hearing. A mystery that baffled scientists.

He knew exactly what he was doing.

Safety You Don’t See Until It’s Gone

What I didn’t fully understand until he didn’t come home was how much he grounded me.

He was safety.

He was routine.

He was the small weight beside me on the bed when the world felt too loud.

He was the quiet presence in the room that meant I was never entirely alone.

Living as a disabled person, you build systems around yourself. Some are visible. Many are not.

We talk about formal supports. Services. Policies. Rights. And rightly so.

But we don’t talk enough about the informal scaffolding that holds you up.

Oscar was part of mine.

On days when I needed grounding, he was there. When my nervous system was doing gymnastics, he steadied it without even trying. When I felt exposed or overwhelmed, his presence anchored me.

It sounds simple.

It wasn’t.

It was regulation. It was comfort. It was nervous system safety in four small legs.

And I only realised the depth of it when the house fell silent.

The Silence

The silence is deafening.

No little paws on the floor.

No stealth movements when food packaging so much as crinkled.

No dramatic sigh as he flopped down after deciding the day had been personally exhausting for him.

No worming his way back under my hand if I stopped petting him. That insistence. That quiet demand. “Excuse me, you were not finished.”

I miss the kisses.

I miss the way he would lie on my bed facing the sunshine like a tiny king surveying his land.

I miss the way my feet, when I sitting in my chair, were the perfect height for his back scratch needs. Convenient for him. Very thoughtful of me.

The ordinary things.

It’s always the ordinary things.

Grief That Doesn’t Need Permission

There is sometimes an unspoken hierarchy of grief.

As if we must rank our losses.

As if loving a dog this deeply requires explanation.

It doesn’t.

Oscar was family. A very important member of it.

He arrived in a house that was still learning how to breathe after losing my dad. And in his own quiet, mischievous way, he helped us do that.

He was woven into the rhythm of my days. Into my nervous system. Into my sense of home.

Losing him was not small.

And if you have ever loved an animal like this, you know exactly what I mean.

What He Taught Me

Oscar taught me something I am still sitting with.

He showed me how much regulation can live in connection.

How grounding can come from presence.

How safety can be soft and small and covered in fur.

As disabled people, we are often told where support should come from.

Formal services. Systems. Structures.

But sometimes the most stabilising force in your life is a small creature who steals your biscuits (not too much!!) and pretends not to hear instructions.

Sometimes resilience looks like routine.

Sometimes strength looks like letting yourself love something fully, even knowing it will hurt one day.

Forever My Oski

You will always be my Oski.

Forever loved.

Forever missed.

The king of this kingdom.

We thought we rescued you when you were 11 weeks old.

The truth is you rescued us right back.

And though the house is quieter now, the space you filled hasn’t disappeared.

It’s just different.

Thank you for grounding me when I didn’t even know I needed grounding.

Thank you for the kisses.

Thank you for the back scratch demands.

Thank you for the sunshine naps.

I hope wherever you are, there are endless biscuits (now that you are allowed), perfectly positioned back scratches, and plenty of room to rule.

See you later, pal.

🐾 🐾