‘I could never understand why Alex took his own life on the Tuesday, when we’d just got the dog’

Muggles the dog was like their first-born so when Charlotte Cripps finds a lump on his back she is reminded of the day she and Alex first brought him home

(Illustration by Amara May)

He may not be a white fluffy puppy anymore and my flat can barely house us all, but Muggles is like Alex’s and my first-born. I remember the day we got him – three days before Alex died. Alex ran up to the breeder’s house and grabbed him out of her arms. He was a pedigree white golden retriever – his parents had won competitions – and we had high hopes for him.

There were a few red flags that I chose to ignore, such as in all the photos Muggles is always the puppy standing on top of his siblings to get to the their food, so nothing’s changed there – but Alex chose him.

His dad was called Trebettyn Teryrnon to Tannadice and his mum was called Jacunda Dancing Girl of Rozansam, which was all a bit too Game of Thrones for us – so we called him plain old Muggles (despite his pedigree lineage name being Rozansam Gobi Forth). Imagine shouting that out in the local park? I had a list of other names I thought we should call him – Aslam, Escobar, Bluebell – but Alex, being a down-to-earth northerner, told me not to be so ridiculous. He’s Muggles.

I could never understand why Alex took his own life on the Tuesday, when we’d only just got the dog on the Saturday? But suicide is not rational.

I was not a dog person before Muggles. In fact I didn’t have a clue. He was meant to be a therapy dog for Alex to help with his depression. Reeling with shock, and in the depths of grief and despair, Muggles became my living teddy bear. I remember how I used to sing to him – his paw on my arm – easing my loneliness after Alex had gone. We became inseparable – indeed I used to carry him around in a bag. I found it hard to know where Alex stopped and the dog started

I often wonder if some part of Alex’s spirit now inhabits the dog: it’s the little things – that sideways glance, his sense of humour – that remind me of Alex. The trouble is that during the aftermath of Alex’s death, I never made it to puppy training classes. And now I wake up in dread of him as he leaps up at the kitchen table and devours the children’s breakfast. But hey ho, it’s never too late to train a dog – is it? Can you teach a four-year old dog a new trick?

But just as I’m considering hiring a dog whisperer or sending him to doggy boot camp, I find a lump on his back the size of a pea. The first vet thinks nothing of it and tells me to return if it gets any bigger. But then, as chance would have it, Muggles becomes lame, and we visit the veterinary surgeon who operated on his knee. He advises me to get it checked out and he samples it there and then while the dog is sedated for an X-ray on his leg.

 I remember how I used to sing to him – his paw on my arm – easing my grief and loneliness after Alex had gone. I used to carry him around in a bag. I found it hard to know where Alex started and the dog stopped

A few days later, I get a phone call from the vet with the results while I’m at work. “What about the biopsy on his lump?” I say. That’s when he tells me. “It is a mast cell tumour but they can’t grade it until it is taken out.” But he’s only four I sob. All I could hear were words like “oncologist”, “operation next week”, “chemotherapy” “radiotherapy” and I said “Stop!”

Hang on a minute. This is so hard. I love my dog. But he’s so caught up with Alex and my grief. My half-sister died of cancer last summer and my mum died of cancer 19 years ago. I burst into tears and flee the office. I get home and cuddle Muggles with tears streaming down my face into his fluffy ears. I text Alex’s mum who suggests I tell the dog that I need him.

I know that dogs understand far more than we give them credit for: I recall the time Muggles saved my sister’s toddler from falling down a flight of stairs by alerting us to the fact she was hanging at the top. I tell Muggles that we need him to protect us, that he is the man of the house. Alex’s cousin rings and recommends I buy the dog some special food. I set off for Tescos and buy him three chicken fillets. None of this was meant to be: I was never meant to be left alone holding the dog, bereft and desperate for children. Now I can see that Muggles was a practice run for having kids.

As it turns out the dog is way more difficult to look after than either of my children. He is gigantic and gallops around the tiny flat hunting for food – with mud all over his paws. But I love him, and with no boyfriend in sight, he’s not Mr Right but he’s Mr Right now.

Later that night I Google mast cell tumour. It is common. If it is grade 1 – it is basically benign. If they can cut it out with a nice margin, life expectancy is good even if it is grade 2. If it has spread, it is not good. If grade 3, it is aggressive and really not good. I wonder if there is Macmillan for dogs? Don’t pet owners need support too? I am beside myself with worry. I have been sent the dreaded welcome pack to the oncology department. Now, I just have to wait for the operation, and then the ultrasound to check it hasn’t spread.

But when I watch him chase after a squirrel, I forget about it all. He looks healthy – those big brown eyes look happy – and his voracious appetite gives me hope that all is well. I’ve got to stay positive. I’m going to take it one day at a time.