Ella

Lady Sniffs A Lot

 

Ella had been sniffing around the flower pots again, her nose buried in the damp soil, inhaling deeply before scooping up a mouthful of mud and chewing with quiet determination.

I knelt beside her, brushing the dirt off her muzzle. “Ella,” I sighed, half amused, half concerned. “We have actual food, you know.”

She looked up at me, unbothered, her tail thumping weakly against the floor. But something about the way she held herself—the stiffness in her limbs, the slow blink of her eyes—told me this wasn’t just a quirk. It was something deeper.

For thirteen years, she had been our shadow, our constant, our Lady Sniffs A Lot. Now, at almost fourteen, her body was telling us what she couldn’t.

The vet confirmed what I already feared. Her platelet count was dangerously low, her haemoglobin was dropping, and her liver—long a source of unpredictable readings—was likely destroying more than it was helping. Supplements weren’t making a dent. Maybe, the vet suggested, a blood transfusion or a hormone injection to stimulate blood production.

I sat with this, turning the options over in my head. Would a transfusion buy us time? A few days? A week? And even if it did—for what? The broader trajectory was clear. The kind thing might not be to fight but to listen.

And yet.

Yet, when you love someone, even in their twilight, you grasp at the things that could bring them comfort, even fleetingly. So we tried the hormone injections, the iron supplements. And for a while, she held on.

Until the evening when her back legs gave out beneath her.

She tried to stand, paws slipping on the floor, her body refusing to follow her will. I caught her before she fully collapsed, her breath warm against my hand.

She was tired.

We had thought we would know when it was time. That there would be a moment of certainty, a clear line between “not yet” and “now.” But instead, it felt like wading through fog, each step heavy with doubt.

The vet could try a transfusion. It might give her a few more days. But at what cost to her? Were we keeping her here for her, or were we holding on for us?

We thought about how she had lived—not just the years, but the way she had filled them. She had run, chased, sniffed, explored. She had slept in the sun, demanded belly rubs, stolen food from unattended plates. She had lived fully, without hesitation.

It wasn’t just about how much time she had left. It was about the kind of time.

So we let her go.

At home, in her space, with Sparky lying beside her—her best friend, her companion for thirteen years. There was no fear in her eyes, only quiet trust. She had always known how to be present in a way we humans struggle to master. Even at the end, she was teaching us.

It was peaceful.

She was gone.

In the days after, the house felt impossibly empty. And yet, her absence was loud—the missing rhythm of her paws, the space where she used to curl up, the way Sparky sniffed the air as if searching for her.

And then Sparky started throwing up bile.

At first, we dismissed it as stress. Dogs grieve too, after all. But it didn’t stop. He began eating less, moving slower. It was as if his body was registering the loss even more acutely than his mind.

Was it just grief? Or was there something deeper, something that Ella’s presence had masked?

The vet suggested it might be acid reflux from an empty stomach, made worse by stress. Sparky had never had to eat alone before. He had never had to be alone before.

So we adjusted—smaller meals, given more frequently. A late-night snack to settle his stomach. More time together, more reassurance. He needed comfort as much as he needed food.

The vomiting eased, but the weight of change lingered.

We let him say goodbye to Ella that day, and I think that helped. But dogs don’t grieve in a single moment. They grieve in the quiet, in the gaps left behind, in the absence of the one they’ve always known.

So we move forward, gently.

With extra treats, longer walks, unspoken reassurances.

With gratitude for the time we had and respect for the fact that, even in loss, life continues.

And with the certainty that Ella, Lady Sniffs A Lot, will always be with us—just in a different way. ❤️

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Originally published on Substack on 10 February 2025. Read on Substack →