Ruby: Small in Stature, Huge in Heart

Some of you will remember Ruby, our gentle, quirky little spaniel. For years, she was part of the practice, padding into sessions, curling up at your feet, or nudging a hand when words felt too heavy. Ruby didn’t need to be trained to do the work. She simply was therapy, steady, grounding, and quietly present in a way that mattered more than most of us could ever put into words.

When we moved offices last year, Ruby retired from therapy work after a minor stroke. That move gave her a kind of goodbye with many of you, a natural closing of her part in the work here. She settled into retirement well, still walking in the woods, chasing balls and remaining her curious, mischievous self ( I will miss her emptying my handbag to snaffle a forgotten snack!).

She loved those walks. Always nose to the ground, skipping about, on the lookout for treasure. She had a knack for finding golf balls that had strayed from the neighbouring course, or a discarded tennis ball from another dog. She’d often outsmart Effie and proudly carry her stolen prize all the way home, chest puffed out as though she’d won a medal. She was small in stature, but she was huge in heart.

Yesterday she slowed, becoming quieter, as though she knew.

Last night, Ruby had another stroke, this time one she couldn’t recover from. I was with her until the very end, holding her close as the vet put her to sleep, whispering the words she had always known: You are loved.

Many of you have continued to ask after Ruby, even since her retirement. It tells me she left her mark. That her soft presence made a difference in this space. And I want you to know that her passing is a real loss, not just for me and my family, but for the wider story of this practice. She was, in her own way, part of the work we did together.

Grief for an animal can sometimes be underestimated, but those of us who’ve loved a dog know it’s a bond that runs deep. Ruby was a rescue who became family. She reminded us daily that healing isn’t always grand or polished; sometimes it’s just muddy-pawed, tail-thumping joy. Sometimes it’s sitting beside you in silence. Sometimes it’s carrying home a golf ball like a treasure.

If this stirs your own grief, know you’re not alone. These losses matter. They shape us. And though Ruby won’t walk through the therapy room door again, her legacy is woven through it, in softness, in presence, in love that doesn’t end, but simply changes shape.

Goodbye, Ruby. Thank you for every muddy walk, every moment of comfort, every gift you gave without even trying. You’ll be missed. We all loved you. But you’ll never be gone.

Sarah x