Adrian Barich: We lost our three pugs in one year. Here’s what I learned about saying goodbye

Some stories you can tell almost as soon as they happen.

Then there are the ones you carry quietly for a while, because just typing the words is painful. This is one of those.

Twelve months ago, we lost Bean, our black pug, named quite appropriately after black beans. Before her came Lilly and Hattie, our two beautiful fawn pugs. Three little dogs who somehow burrowed their cute little faces into our hearts and became a huge part of our lives.

And in the space of one year, we lost all three. They each became unwell around their 10th birthdays and one by one we found ourselves facing the conversation every dog owner dreads. The one about quality of life. About pain. About knowing when enough is enough. About letting go.

I haven’t really talked about it until now. It’s been too painful, and perhaps I simply didn’t know how to put into words what it feels like to say goodbye to three members of your family in twelve months.

There is something uniquely cruel about loving a dog. They give you everything without asking for much in return. They don’t care what you look like, how successful you’ve been, or whether you’ve had a good day or a terrible one. They are simply delighted that you are there.

Dogs are one of the world’s greatest gifts. And eventually, if we’re lucky enough to have them for long enough, we have to give something back.

For us, that meant making the hardest decision we have ever had to make. Three bloody times.

I remember reading something on social media during those difficult days. I don’t know how scientifically precise it was, and I’ve since learned that some claims about what happens in a dog’s final moments are more complicated than a post makes them sound.

But emotionally, the message made sense. It said that when the time comes, our job isn’t to make the goodbye about our own fear. It’s to make it about them.

Stay close. Let them hear your voice, feel your touch and, most importantly, smell you. Smell is their strongest sense, after all.

If you can find the courage, press your forehead to theirs. Your warmth, your familiar scent, your closeness tells them they are not alone. You are giving them comfort and safety in a moment they cannot understand on their own.

Be the familiar thing in an unfamiliar moment. And, as impossible as it feels, try to remain calm. (It is almost impossible, by the way.)

That last part is the hardest. Because inside, you are falling apart. You know what is happening. You know this beautiful little creature who has followed you around the house, slept beside you, made you laugh and comforted you without saying a word is about to leave.

Every instinct screams: don’t go, surely there’s a cure just around the corner, aren’t the Americans working on something? But sadly this isn’t about what you want. It’s about what they need.

So you put your hand on them. You stroke their head. You whisper to them. You tell them how much you love them, even though they have probably known that every single day of their lives. Most critically, you stay by their side.

Perhaps that is the greatest gift we can give them at the end: not to make the moment about our grief, but to make sure they don’t feel alone. We had to do that three times in one year and if you’re a dog lover, or any kind of animal lover, you know what we were dealing with.

In some strange way, I saw it as our duty. They had spent their lives trusting us to look after them. When their bodies could no longer do what they needed them to do, we had to be brave enough to make the decision they couldn’t make for themselves.

You hate it. You question it relentlessly. You wish desperately there was some other way. But I know we did what was right.

And I am grateful that, in those final moments, I could shield them from my own heartbreak long enough to give them the peace they deserved.

Lilly. Hattie. Bean. Three little pugs. Three enormous pieces of our hearts.

A year has passed since Bean crossed the rainbow bridge and I still miss them. I suspect I always will. But I like to imagine that somewhere, somehow, they are together again, waiting patiently, tails wagging, wondering when we’ll turn up.

And if there really is a place where the dogs we’ve loved are waiting for us, I hope one day we get to walk through that gate and hear three familiar little sets of paws coming towards us. Until then, I’ll carry them with me.

Because grief is simply the price we pay for having loved something that was never meant to stay forever. And when you get a dog, you know it’s going to be lots of wonderful days and then one very awful one.