Polly is nearing 15. That’s quite an achievement for a little dog — even if she’s not big and not an official purebred.

Her name was originally Sonja, but that reminded me of the nasty little dog from the neighbors when I was a kid. The one that would bite your calves without hesitation.

If you’re ever considering a dog and you come across a Boer Fox × Frisian Stabyhoun mix… think twice. Explosive combination. Not for the faint-hearted.

I had to get used to Polly sinking her teeth into everything: bars of soap, candles, the salt shaker, the remote control…
I also had to get used to not seeing her during walks — eventually trusting she was tearing around somewhere nearby.

I didn’t know you shouldn’t walk her at dusk — that’s when all the animals leave their little hideouts and the party begins for Polly. For me, that meant waiting an hour and a half until it was pitch dark, until madam, tongue hanging to her knees, finally decided to come out of the bushes.

I didn’t know she would, in no time, slaughter an entire coot family — with a loudly squeaking chick as dessert. That sound will never leave my brain.

I didn’t know she could catch rabbits, pheasants, jackdaws and squirrels. Even a fat bumblebee didn’t stand a chance and had to spend the rest of its life without wings.

And Polly guarded her home with a fierceness you wouldn’t believe. It didn’t matter whether that was our brick house, the camper during our trips, or the Aldi parking lot. Full meltdown mode.

Of course, I didn’t know any of that when I drove to Boxmeer to find a buddy for Hannes.

The dog I had actually come for — Polly’s mother — immediately bit poor Hannes in his backside. And because Hannes had gone blind, that was extra heartbreaking: he didn’t even see the teeth coming.

When I said, “This isn’t going to work,” the owner replied:
“She just had puppies and my father isn’t happy about it. This morning he said, ‘What a damn dog.’ Shall I ask him if he wants one of the puppies gone?”

Before I could even answer, the family hopped on their bikes. Ten minutes later they came back with Polly.

My mother fell in love instantly. Before I could say yes, the financial transaction was completed and Polly was sitting in the old fire truck on her way to my house.

It took a little while, but then it switched on between us. Since then, we’ve been able to read each other like a book. That never changed.

And suddenly, more than 14 years have passed.

Tuesday I took her to the vet for a check-up. He saw immediately that something was wrong. Her belly is full of fluid. Her little heart is almost done.

If I let nature take its course, she will slowly suffocate. And after more than 14 years of loyal service, I won’t let that happen.

I always joke that Easy hangs her entire self-confidence on Polly. At least twice a day, Easy tries to become best friends. She circles around Polly with a wagging tail, but Polly never gives in. Even on her last day, she remains unmoved.

But what I realized is this:
I hang my own sense of safety on Polly too.
At home. And on all our trips together.

People who have never had a dog can sometimes be dismissive about “dog grief.”
But anyone who has truly loved an animal like this knows: they crawl into your heart and never really leave. For more than one reason.

So yes, tomorrow at half past two will take some getting used to.

And I know — there is no loss without gain. But right now, I have no idea what that gain is supposed to be.

So while she’s lying next to me on the couch, still warm, breathing, still wagging her tail when she sees me, there is only now.

Tomorrow can wait a little longer.