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Dolly: A Little Dog Who Was Loved Until the Very End

Some dogs become part of your life in ways you never quite expect. Dolly, a little Shih Tzu, was one of those dogs.

For more than two years, I had been visiting Dolly regularly. Since March 2024, I had seen her 1,764 times. What began as pet care became something much more personal: a genuine friendship between a dog and the person who came to look after her.

Dolly had a personality all of her own. She was affectionate, curious, occasionally stubborn and very good at making her opinions known. Meals happened when she decided they should happen. Chicken was highly regarded. Cheese was even better. And if something interesting was happening in the kitchen, Dolly would invariably appear to investigate.

She was, quite simply, a character.

The Diagnosis

In late July 2026, everything changed.

Dolly was diagnosed with an untreatable cancerous liver tumour.

It was devastating news, particularly because she had still been enjoying so many of the ordinary things that made her Dolly. She was still interested in her surroundings, still going for walks, still sniffing everything she could find and still deciding when she fancied eating.

We knew the diagnosis was serious, but nobody could know exactly how quickly things would change.

The following sixteen days became a mixture of hope, worry, good moments and difficult ones.

There were days when Dolly ate enthusiastically, particularly when chicken was on offer. There were walks where she seemed almost like her old self. There were cuddles, drinks of fresh water, treats and plenty of attention.

And then there were the signs that the cancer was taking its toll.

She began vomiting occasionally. Her appetite became increasingly unpredictable. Eventually she stopped eating altogether. She became weaker and increasingly lethargic.

At one point she had lost an extraordinary amount of weight in a matter of weeks — eventually weighing around half what she had weighed only a couple of weeks earlier.

Yet something remarkable remained.

Dolly remained Dolly.

Even when her body was failing, she remained alert and aware of what was happening around her. She listened to conversations. She recognised familiar voices. She continued to take an interest in the people around her.

That made the decision to let her go all the more heartbreaking.

Saying Goodbye

Eventually, her Mummy Sheila and I had to accept that Dolly’s quality of life had deteriorated to the point where the kindest thing we could do was allow her to leave peacefully.

It wasn’t a decision anyone wanted to make.

But it was made for Dolly.

The first attempt to arrange the appointment was complicated by the PDSA having only one vet on duty and no appointments available that day. Eventually, an appointment was arranged for the following morning.

That morning, I brushed Dolly’s coat.

It was such a simple thing, but it felt important. After everything she had been through, she deserved to be comfortable and cared for right to the end.

Sheila is housebound and was unable to take Dolly on her final journey, so I had promised Sheila that I would take Dolly, and that she would not be alone at the end.

I kept that promise.

When we arrived at the PDSA, which was only around the corner from Sheila’s home, I carried Dolly in my arms. We stood outside in the car park for a while, allowing her to feel the warmth of the sunshine on her coat and smell the air for the last time.

Then we went inside.

While we waited, Dolly remained in my arms. A couple of times I carried her over to the window so she could look outside.

Even then, she was still interested in what was happening.

The vet eventually took her through to fit a cannula and then called me back into the room.

Dolly was lying on the examination table with a small blanket over her.

She had her head up and was still aware.

Still interested.

Still Dolly.

I stroked her head.

“Goodbye, sweetheart.”

The vet asked if it was okay to administer the medication.

I said yes.

The drug was given.

Dolly’s head gently went down.

And within seconds, she was gone.

Dolly died peacefully at 11:35am. on Friday 7th August 2026.

There was no struggle. No distress. No fear.

Just a peaceful goodbye.

1,764 Visits, Or Thereabouts

When I think about Dolly now, I don’t want my strongest memory to be that final morning.

I want to remember the 1,764 times before it.

The walks.

The sniffing.

The food negotiations.

The chicken.

The cheese.

The occasions when I would leave and get the unmistakable “Where are you going?” look.

The couple of times she had to come and stay with me and my cats Sally and Dotty, and the time she gave the Rottweiler next door to me a dirty look after it growled at her from its balcony. “Oy, do you mind I’m having a pee!”

The countless ordinary moments that don’t sound particularly significant individually, but which together made up a friendship.

And I’ll remember the way Sheila described Dolly’s relationship with me: she had become very attached to me.

I think she was right.

Dolly knew me. She trusted me. And during the final weeks of her life, when circumstances meant she needed someone other than Sheila to care for her, she knew she was safe.

A Final Gift

On the day Dolly died, Sheila gave me something very special.

A photograph of Baby Dolly.

There she was as a young Dolly, wearing in a little red-and-white jumper. Beneath are the words:

“SPOILT ROTTEN.”

It made me smile.

Because that was Dolly.

And because Sheila knew that this photograph wasn’t just a picture. It was a piece of Dolly’s history, and she wanted me to have it.

I’ll treasure it.

Walking Dolly’s Park

Later that afternoon, I went for a walk in Dolly’s favourite park.

It felt like it was what Dolly wanted me to do.

As I walked along the paths she knew so well, I felt as though she was walking beside me, stopping every few yards to investigate another scent and generally deciding where we were going.

Perhaps that’s what happens when a dog becomes part of your life.

They leave traces everywhere.

In the places you walked together.

In the routines we shared.

In her llttle habits I remember.

And sometimes, simply in the feeling that they are still walking beside me.

Remembering Dolly

Dolly’s life ended far sooner than anyone would have wanted.

Her cancer took her from us quickly after the diagnosis, and the final days were incredibly difficult.

But her final days weren’t her whole life.

She was loved throughout her life.

She had a home.

She had walks.

She had treats.

She had cuddles.

She had someone who knew exactly when she wanted food — and when she absolutely did not.

And when the time finally came, she wasn’t alone.

She had Sheila’s love and my love behind her, and she had me beside her.

I was able to keep the promise I made.

Dolly was not alone.

She left this world peacefully, with a familiar voice speaking to her and a familiar hand gently stroking her head.

That’s how I will remember her.

Not as the little dog who had cancer.

But as Dolly.

A funny, stubborn, curious, spoiled-rotten little Shih Tzu who somehow managed to leave a very big hole behind her.

Rest peacefully, sweetheart.

You were loved. ❤️