My life was mostly happy – I had a job I enjoyed and a husband I loved. But as the Covid-19 pandemic took over I felt something was missing: having an animal to nurture. I had grown up with cats and found them affectionate but aloof. Meanwhile, everyone said that dogs showered you with unconditional love. In a time as isolating as lockdown, that sounded just what I needed.
In 2020, we left London for Essex so we could adopt Anya, a seven-year-old boxer-staffordshire terrier cross whose grin enchanted us from the moment we saw her photo on the Danaher rescue website. We settled on the city of Chelmsford for its proximity to our friends in London, and because it offered us a bigger, more affordable space so Anya could have a garden of her own to frolic in. It was a match made in heaven.
From the first day she ran toward me with reckless abandon in our garden, I felt an extraordinary warmth that assuaged my fears that moving out of London was rash and she would be unhappy with us. Anya was home, and so was I.
I was on furlough from my dream job in television development, while my husband worked long hours at home in a challenging job. Still, while there was so much uncertainty in the world, inside our four walls it was bliss. Anya’s brindle coat shone on bright summer days. Her quirks were endless; she tore apart every toy we gave her in seconds; she had an amorous kinship with a large Percy Pig doll; she didn’t walk in a straight line as much as she wiggled from one side to the other. Once, she found a hedgehog in the garden and hurled it up in the air as if it was a tennis ball. Somehow, it escaped unscathed.
Several weeks after we adopted Anya, I was made redundant. That would normally have created a significant setback to my mental health, but getting to spend every waking moment with her gave me a sense of peace I had never experienced before. Hearing her breathing, or, more often, her cartoonish snoring (Anya had a distinctive cleft lip) never failed to slow my heart rate and let me know that everything would be OK.
After seven months with us, however, she began to limp. Worried she had sprained something, we took her to the vet, where they discovered an enormous tumour that surrounded her entire back leg. She must have been in unfathomable pain. The only way to save her was to amputate.
Anya became our beloved three-legged lady, which hardly fazed her. Even the vets were blown away by how happy she was. I was struck by her determination to keep her strength, and she always gave it her all in numerous hydrotherapy sessions.
Eventually, the cancer came back and we said goodbye after only 13 months. The day she died, I promised Anya I would live every day to the fullest in her honour and never take anything for granted. I hope I’ve done her proud.
