I'll See You in the Park Shortly

I'm sitting at my desk in our home office. Zephyr's little shrine is by the window, and every time I rest my eyes I look out at the sky, and then I look at her.

It's been a bit more than four months since we lost our girl. I've wanted to write this the whole time, and I've never had the courage. What's finally got me here is that I keep seeing posts from people in our community losing their greyhounds too, and I remember exactly how it felt to be searching for someone, anyone , who had been through it and could tell me what it was actually like. 

This is what it was actually like.

“What do i do without Zephyr”, “I can’t live without Zephyr”

I'd been saying these things to my husband Joe since the early days we adopted her. Losing her was something I always knew, from the very start, would completely destroy me. And it was something I was never willing to prepare for.

But somehow, when the moment came, we were brave. We were less selfish. It was the moment we had to make the decision for her and not for ourselves; and surprisingly, that decision was easy. But It was also the hardest thing we have ever been through.

“Fuck you Cancer. She is almost gonna be 11.”

Joe always said Zephyr wouldn't outlive Teddy, our other greyhound. She'd had a long list of health problems since the day we got her, and we treated every one of them the moment it appeared. But we still pictured her getting old with us.

Instead she got one of the most aggressive cancers there is, osteosarcoma. We found out JUST after she'd recovered from a toe amputation for a growing lump. Her left front leg started limping. It was cancer, eating her bone away.

We were told we had a choice: amputate the leg, start chemo, and if she recovered well, she might gain three to six months. She also had arthritis, and it was a front leg. We ruled it out on the spot, there was no hesitation in it.

We took her home with a heavy heart. We didn't talk on the way home. The only sound in the car was me sobbing.

We knew it was done. We knew we had to do what was best for her. We booked a home euthanasia as soon as we got home, and gave ourselves ten more days to make memories with her.

“Do you think the 10th is too far away?” “Did they rule out Bone infection?”

Grief started much earlier than I thought it would.

Denial, bargaining, anger, depression, acceptance. They all came at once, before she'd even gone. Questioning the vet's diagnosis. Worrying the euthanasia date we'd booked was too far away. Blaming myself for the toe amputation, wondering if I should never have put her through it, if she'd have had more freedom without it.

And then searching. Like a headless fly, as we say in Chinese — Reddit, Facebook groups, forums, hunting for people who'd been through the same thing, half looking for help accepting it and half looking for someone to tell me we'd got it right. Writing emotional, angry, sad posts on my own Instagram.

We were lucky that it fell over Easter weekend. No work, more time with her, and a chance to keep our normal life running alongside it, which healed us a little. We were lucky to have friends who showed up and stayed close, so we never had to do it alone.

They took us hiking, and encouraged us to stand at the top and shout out at the sea. I screamed Zephyr's name like she was already dead. She was at home, waiting for me.

“I’ve never been this sad.” “Maybe having such a long time is harder.”

April 10th, 2026.

The night before, we dragged the mattress out onto the living room floor and put her bed and Teddy's bed beside us, hoping we could all sleep together.

Funnily and unsurprisingly, Zephyr rejected our proposal. God, she loved her routine, and she loved her own space. That set the tone for the big day — we decided not to make it big. Keep her feeling normal, nothing to alert her. We knew that was what she actually wanted: her ordinary life, right to the end,

On the day - "calm before the storm" 

As Auckland braced for the arrival of a tropical cyclone, we braced for the wave that was going to swallow us.

We woke up a bit late. Fed her her usual breakfast. Let her out to do her peepee poopoo business. Petted her, kissed her, let her rest on the deck in the sun. We did one of those clay paw prints with her — she hated the smell of the clay.

At lunchtime we invited family over to celebrate her life and share some yummy treats with her. She loved the sausage roll the most. We held a little Irish wake: everyone gathered around Zephyr (she wasn't dead yet), shared one sentence about her, and we sculled our whiskey. She was happy, content, and completely exhausted by the end of it. She always, always loved her family the most. She loved being around people who loved her. We were so grateful we could give her that.

Thirty-five minutes before the appointment, I wrote in my notes:

"I don't know what I'm facing… I feel a rock in my chest. I'm so glad that she doesn't know what's coming."

Fifty-five minutes later, I whispered in her ear: "I'll see you in the park shortly. Come find Teddy and us, we'll go for a walk before the storm."

She was peaceful. She was so soft. Just like she was alive.

We wrapped her in a blanket, carried her to the vet's car, and I gave her one last kiss on her forehead. The vet hugged us, and we said thank you, and then we left Zephyr in their hands. 

We named her after the ancient Greek god of the west wind — a soft, gentle breeze. That afternoon we walked Teddy to the park and did Zephyr's favourite path, and allowed ourselves to be superstitious, feeling the wind like she was walking beside us. Beside Teddy. Beside all of us.

Red sky at night- Zephyr’s delight.

Ahh! The sunset that night was so beautiful, so saturated. What a night to celebrate the finale of your life.

And we actually felt a bit relieved.

(Writing this far, my eyes hurt from crying.) 

“I still can’t believe that you’re gone. I want you back so badly. Am I going to be sad forever from now on?”

Since she's gone, I've been writing in my notebook whenever I miss her, whenever I want to talk to her. It's the thing that's helped most.

My sister-in-law sent me a diagram called Growing Around Grief — the idea that grief doesn't shrink, but your life slowly grows bigger around it. That was the first thing that made sense to me. I'd been waiting to feel better, and treating it as a failure that I didn't. Once I accepted that the grief isn't going anywhere, and that I'd just be building a life around it, I felt something loosen. Relief, of a kind.

"Growing Around Grief", Lois Tonkin, 1996, via whatsyourgrief.com]

It still arrives out of nowhere. Waking up at 2am to go to the toilet. Driving home. In the middle of being happy. We don't avoid talking about her — she's my phone screen, my profile picture, my username, my wifi. Still my home. I live with a running thought of I wish Zephyr was here, and I've stopped fighting it.

We’re lucky to still have Teddy, there’s still a dog to feed, still the walk, still someone waiting by the door. It’s not the same without her, but having to get up and do it has carried us through mornings I wouldn’t have got out of bed for otherwise.

And there’s the other side of that, which I didn’t expect. Teddy turns ten this year. I don’t know what it will look like when it’s his turn. But I recognise the feeling that’s waiting for me now, and that’s not exactly comfort.

So if you're at the start of this: you don't have to know how to live without them yet. You don't have to be okay by a certain date. You're not doing it wrong because it still hurts at four months, or a year, or ten.

And if you want to tell me about your dog, their name, their worst habit, the thing only they did. I would genuinely love to hear it. Zephyr's the reason this whole thing exists.

There's always room here for one more.