Last week, I sat in the emergency department of a veterinary hospital for hours with my 12-year-old greyhound, Karla. She’d woken screaming in severe pain, so we went to the emergency department after consulting a home visiting veterinarian. The vet recommended we admit Karla for X-rays to see if the pain was caused by osteosarcoma – a common and deadly cancerexperienced by greyhounds.

As we waited, I saw a weeping family, their golden retriever lying preternaturally still on a bed in a consulting room. Their sobs were guttural; I knew what had happened. I looked at social media to distract myself and saw a post from Nagi, talking about her beloved dog Dozer’s illness, and felt a sense of connection, but also devastatingly alone in the bond between my dog and me, and the decisions I would need to make about her.

Eventually, my dog limped into the back with the vet to be sedated and X-rayed. I bent to look into her wide eyes and to hold her close as I felt her tremble and pant against me.

“Be brave, this is to help you, I’ll be back very soon,” I whispered, before walking out in a stupor.

Since the day I adopted Karla more than eight years ago, I’ve felt the grief of looming........

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