How do you even BEGIN to honour the lives of those who view you as their whole lives?! Their stories become part of yours.

Ranger died on my 24th birthday. We’d had him since I was nine. I named him after the ‘blue’ fox from The Animals Of Farthing Wood. He was an amazing Labrador Retriever, he protected my sister and me from a sick and aggressive male kangaroo, and we grew up with him. I was gonna get his tattoo on 2023 in Bali when we went back for my birthday, but chickened out when I saw a man with a heavily bleeding tattoo. Then, on my birthday, I was hit by a car.
It became clear to me then, when we went back for my birthday two years later. WHY I was getting his name tattooed onto my wrist in Bali - not just because it was cheap but because the place (which I love) was where I could’ve died on the anniversary of a day when I was born but also when my dog was sent on his journey to Heaven after having a stroke; it was like it had come full circle.
And, yes, I used Numit gel and I have no shame in that. Some parts did hurt, but . . .

We adopted a rescue dog whom we named Indie a few months after Rangie left us, and not long after that my sister, who was in another state, rescued another dog.
My sister’s relationship fell apart (the man then chose to go to Heaven exactly one year after my sister returned home, marking a very painful moment in this story - I remember him and my sister coming over the morning that Ranger left us; I could hear them and I heard the partner laugh about something, but, I wasn’t sure what was going on … looking back, it was probably because Ranger had crinkled his nose up at my sister’s perfume, somehow).

So, when Mum brought my sister home, of course the puppy came too. Indie was not sure of Zoey at first but soon they became best friends … bonded … sisters in all but blood. They slept together and licked each others faces (face-attack, I called it) and (aurgh) worked together to hunt any local wildlife that came onto our property (sorry, New Holland Honeyeaters).

At Christmas in 2025 I was feeling so cozy despite the 40℃ day - because the air-conditioner was on and the dogs were safe and happy in the laundry. All was well . . .
Until Zoey started limping the following day. Flash forward to a few vet checks and such later, and it turned out to be a bone tumour.
Fuck cancer. You hurt me, you hurt my Dad, you killed my Nanna, you killed my Granddad, but . . .

You wouldn’t kill Zoey. We would choose when to let her go on her journey to Heaven.

That’s hard, though.

Within three months, Zoey’s left front leg had swollen horrifically and she had deteriorated so badly that my sister finally made the call.

I couldn’t be there during it (Mum couldn’t either because Zoey kept on looking at her), and so I stayed in the front lounge room and listened to one of the same songs that I had with Ranger - The Time Has Come, from a Pokémon album.

I stood by the patio door and looked out afterwards and … I just lost it. Luckily, my Dad happened to be standing just there all of a sudden.
I take solace in the fact that, unlike with Rangie, Zoey was not brain-dead (no horrible rasping sound) - she could still recognise us and the night before she and Indie even took out a huge rat! (Sorry, Rat). She practically chased Dad down to the fence when he took it to throw it over, despite her aching leg!
Her leg would’ve just gotten worse and worse. I am glad that her final days were like this; just her being her.

My sister and I got matching pendants with some of her ashes in them - we both chose the purple one because Zoey loved the lavender bush; she dug a tunnel under there to lay in.
We went back to Bali earlier this year and I got her name tattooed, just like I told her that I would.
The words of my best friend who has never and will never get a tattoo but has lost many dogs came to mind.
Perhaps it was because it was such a short amount of time between when she left on her journey to Heaven and when I got the tattoo, or perhaps the guy really DIDN’T put enough Numit gel on (seriously) - but, either way, I did get very teary.
I made a big deal of looking at pictures of Zoey on my phone, so that the people there would know that it was because I was finally accepting her being gone (not that they would care - that is, they’re used to people crying in their tattoo parlour for multiple reasons).

My Dad also said to me, after we drew apart from my sobbing and hysterical hug on the 26th March: “Don’t worry - our next dog will be a Galapagos Tortoise.”
They live for two-hundred years.
I wish, Dad. I wish.

But, how could I EVER ask a dog to go through this?

Also, when we move, I will take some of the dirt from right over where Ranger was buried, and keep it in a jar (my jar of dirt, lol).