Four years ago, our lives changed forever when we opened our home to a black Labrador named Dodger. He was about five or six years old when he first came to us, but the years he had lived before were heavy on him. He wasn’t just any dog — he was a soul that had been mistreated, broken in ways that made even his quietest movements seem cautious.
When we first met him, it was clear he had suffered deeply. Most of his front teeth were missing, his ear was crumpled and scarred into a permanent cauliflower shape, and his whole body language spoke of fear. He was especially wary around men, shrinking back or trembling if a voice got too loud or a hand moved too quickly. It broke our hearts. But there was a softness in his eyes, a glimmer of hope that hadn’t quite been extinguished, and we knew we had to give him a second chance.
His first walk with us was a disaster, though not because of anything he did wrong. Something — we never did figure out what — spooked him badly, and in a moment of panic, he managed to slip free of his lead and run. Watching him disappear down the street was one of the worst feelings I’ve ever experienced.
For two long, agonizing weeks, we searched for him. Every day we scoured parks, alleyways, fields — anywhere a frightened dog might hide. We put up posters, called shelters, contacted vets, and combed through neighborhoods on foot. Nights were filled with restless sleep, each dream haunted by the image of him lost and scared. Each morning started with renewed hope and ended with heavy disappointment.
Then came the call that changed everything. A report had come in about a black dog living rough by the side of a busy dual-carriageway. It took a few tense, nerve-wracking days, but eventually, through patience, luck, and the kindness of strangers, Dodger was safely returned to us. He was tired, thin, and even more skittish than before, but when he saw us — really saw us — there was a flicker of recognition. Somehow, in that short time, he had already decided we were his people.
From that moment forward, the bond between Dodger and my mum became something extraordinary. She had been the one to sign the adoption papers, but in reality, Dodger had adopted her just as fiercely. He became her little shadow, never wanting to be more than a few feet away from her. He would quietly follow her from room to room, content just to be close. Whenever she left the house without him, he would sit by the door, waiting patiently for her return, ears perking up at every sound.
We called him Dodger after the Artful Dodger from Oliver Twist when we discovered his mischievous side — especially his surprising knack for stealing loaves of bread when no one was looking. It became a running joke in the house, the way he’d quietly vanish and reappear with a whole loaf, looking far too pleased with himself for us to even pretend to be mad.
In those four years, we watched a transformation. Dodger slowly, carefully rebuilt his trust in people. He would always be a little wary around unfamiliar men, but with us, he was pure love. He brought so much laughter to our home — the kind that bubbles up unexpectedly and fills a room — and in our hardest moments, he was a quiet, steady presence. Just having him nearby could ease the weight of the world.
He and my mum had a connection that went beyond words. It wasn’t just love; it was understanding. They seemed to speak in their own silent language, one that didn’t need anything so clumsy as words. A look, a nudge, the way he’d press his head against her knee — it all spoke volumes. His devotion to her was absolute, unwavering. He would have followed her anywhere.
But time, as it always does, kept moving forward. A few months ago, we started noticing the little changes — the way he moved slower, slept more, the grey creeping into his muzzle. And then came the harder signs: the struggle to stand, the labored breaths, the pain he could no longer hide. Despite it all, Dodger fought to stay with us. He held on longer than we could have ever asked of him, giving everything he had to stay by her side.
Yesterday, we faced the hardest goodbye of our lives. We held him close in his final moments, whispering all the love and gratitude we could into his soft ears. We told him he was a good boy, the best boy, and that he would always be loved. I watched as my mum cradled his head, her heart breaking right in front of me, saying goodbye to the friend who had once saved her just as surely as she had saved him.
Dodger was more than a dog. He was family. He was healing and laughter, loyalty and quiet strength. He came into our lives broken and scared, and he left surrounded by a love so deep, so fierce, it could never be measured.
We are heartbroken that our time with him wasn’t longer, but beyond the sadness, there is endless gratitude. Gratitude that he chose us. Gratitude that we got to love him, and be loved by him in return.
Goodnight, Dodger. Thank you for everything. We’ll carry you with us always.
