The Dogs He Loved

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Thanks, Dad.

I understand everything now.

You didn’t do badly. You didn’t have it easy either. And I’m not sure I would have done better in your shoes. In fact, I don’t think I could have. So I just want to say… I appreciate it.

You were quirky. Eccentric. Funny. Joyful. You turned ordinary things into weird little adventures. You had this dry, dark humour that lit up even the worst moments. If we were ever in the trenches together, I think we’d be laughing about it between shell blasts. And yeah, you were emotionally immature in some ways—but you were present. You were real. And that’s more than I can say for a lot of people.

You showed up the only way you knew how: by trying to give me more than you had. Putting me in a posh school, trying to make my life easier, even if it meant feeling out of place yourself. I see now that everything you did came from a deep intention to help me, even if it felt confusing at the time. And that intention—to care, to love, to give—was so strong in you.

You gave me things I didn’t fully appreciate until now.

A sense of humour that helps me survive.
A quiet dignity.
A value for integrity—even when it’s hard.
And most of all, a deep, strange, sincere love for dogs.

When I play with dogs, I feel most like you.

It’s not about commands or control. It’s just presence. Joy. The kind of connection where nothing needs to be said. That was you. That’s me.

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My first therapist, John, once suggested something that’s always stuck with me.

He said maybe you got the dogs to replace me after I left home.

At the time I didn’t want to believe that. But now, I see it differently.

You took in a rescue dog—a wild one. A dog that had been mistreated, the kind that might’ve been put down. You didn’t try to train him. You just let him be. Let him be crazy. Let him be exactly who he was. Even when it put you at risk. Even when he pulled you over in the street.

You used to play with that dog. Not just care for him—but wind him up, laugh at his chaos, stir his madness on purpose. You loved it. You lit up. You were free. It was the happiest I ever saw you.

And maybe that says it all.

You found joy in the chaos. You didn’t try to tame what was wild. You let things be strange and unpredictable and honest. Because maybe you knew that love doesn’t have to look neat to be real.

That dog wasn’t a replacement for me. It was an extension of what you couldn’t fully express. And maybe, in winding him up, you were loving a part of both of us.

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I never got to grieve you properly. The system I was in didn’t honour you. They didn’t see your goodness. They painted you in strange colours I didn’t recognise. And so I learned not to feel the grief. Not to feel the love.

But I do now.

And I carry you in the best parts of me.

When I laugh at the darkness.
When I play with dogs.
When I choose love, even if it’s complicated.

You did well, mate.

And I miss you.

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