There are few things in life you can truly understand until you experience it for yourself.
The loss of a cherished and much-loved family pet is one of those moments when the heartache and grief are immeasurable.
Time stops, breathing is shallow, and you enter a zone of moving through the motions and emotions with those around you who are also impacted by the significant loss.
When I was a young girl, my Grandmother, Glenda Ross, bought me a white Persian kitten.
We were in Mackay shopping, as Grandma lived in Sarina then.
Never one to ask permission, Grandma bought me ‘Topsy’, much to my mother’s surprise.
Less than impressed at the unexpected addition to our family, Mum helped me take care of Topsy in the following years.
Named because of the small patch of grey fur on the top of her head amidst a sea of white, Topsy was my cherished companion.
A beautiful cat who I spent a lot of time with, loving and caring for her.
I was 14 when Topsy left this earth to pursue the mice in the sky, and I remember the devastation I felt yet didn’t understand.
A cancer had started to consume her face after beginning as a tiny black dot on her nose, a typical challenge faced by white cats in the Central Queensland sun, I was told.
For many years after Topsy’s passing, I thought Vets were the enemy.
I was a child and didn’t understand how my beautiful Topsy couldn’t be saved.
What I likened to a GP visit for a check-up was not what I observed when taking Topsy to the Vet because she never came home again.
Had I known my options or even understood the severity of her condition, I’d have liked to have had one last sunset with her.
I know though, that my family made the right decision at the time for Topsy’s wellbeing.
Of course, with age and maturity, I’ve learnt to understand the particular type of person it is who works in the field of veterinary care.
From the Vet to the nurse and extending to the administration team.
It truly is a special kind of person who can advocate for the welfare of an animal and do it with their best interest at heart above all else.
With 12 goofy and fun-filled years of love and companionship, our family recently had to say goodbye to our beloved Labrador, Chelsea.
Arriving late one evening by car in January of 2012, my Aunt and Uncle had collected puppy Chelsea from my sister, who lived in Brisbane at the time, and they drove her to Rockhampton along with their new pup.
We waited eagerly for Chelsea’s arrival.
Madison was just four years old, and Alan was two.
A cliché family unit with three children, a Labrador and a picket fence.
Almost twelve years of memories, love and fun, she was the perfect pet.
If we ignore her escapism and the destruction of the puppy years of course.
We’ve been so lucky to have her in our lives for so long, and there will be a missing piece of our hearts forever now.
It is truly incredible how much joy and love a family pet, particularly a dog, can bring.
Chelsea never judged us, was always keen to play or cuddle, and was always there for us.
And her digs to China will be evident in our yard for months to come, prompting happy memories, a special request from our children to leave her presence.
Chelsea loved to play in the yard with Madison, Alan, Sara and friends.
She loved summer sprinkler fun, and in her last few years, she forgot she was aging and carried on as a fun-loving, adventurous and energetic dog, even though her speed and the visible signs of her age were evident.
Chelsea hated storms and fireworks, much like the rest of the dogs in our street.
While her purpose was never that of a guard dog, she had a fine-tuned intuition and knew who to bark at and who was okay.
Perched up on her hill overseeing the world from the home she had since 2014, Chelsea was the Queen of our cul-de-sac.
My hope is that my children remember Chelsea’s final 18 hours at home with fond memories.
Sad, of course, but grateful too.
Some are not as lucky as us to have had the opportunity for one last sunset.
The world stopped in those last 18 hours; nothing else mattered except being together.
There was no school, no exams, no volunteering, no work, just family.
All that is left now is the tree we bought from Bunnings after she fell asleep forever.
A tree that we’ll take care of and place her ashes under.
A tree that Alan frequents regularly, in my guess, as an attempt to be closer to her.
Our hearts are broken, and we are all devastated; showing it differently.
This journey of grief won’t be swift.
Instead, the memories of our time together will live on in us and we’ll share stories and look at photographs with fondness.
I want to extend my heartfelt thanks to High Street Vet Clinic for a lifetime of care and support.
“How lucky am I to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard.” – Winnie the Pooh.
Chelsea, 2011 – 2023
