I see the term “soul dog” on social media all the time. 

It is generally used to describe a dog that touches someone’s life in a way no other animal, or person (for that matter), ever has – the kind of bond that goes beyond ownership or routine. It’s about connection, understanding, and a shared sense of love that is hard to explain, but impossible to forget once you’ve felt it.

Five years ago, I met my soul dog, an 85lb staffie / mastiff cross with a heart of gold.

He belonged to my neighbour – she had rescued him after her previous dog had passed away – and I used to walk him and look after him to help her out.

For those who have never had a pet as part of the family, it is a difficult thing to explain. He wasn’t mine, but in a weird way it almost felt like he was. He was a big dog, but a total goofball – full of personality and always making me laugh, and there was something so endearing about his mix of clumsy enthusiasm and gentle nature. He was brilliant with other dogs, adored people, and especially loved children. We didn’t know much about his previous life other than that he was with a large family, and this was evident in the way that he behaved around little ones, automatically calming down his energy and sitting down whenever children approached him – and they all adored him. In all the years I knew him, I never once saw even a hint of aggression… he was just happy to be included.

Spending time with him did wonders for both my physical and mental health. On days when things had been tough, he got me outside, moving, laughing, and feeling lighter. Watching him chase a ball around the field in all weathers was just pure joy. I even entered him in local dog shows, making jokes to his owner about me being an “award-winning handler,” when he won third prize in the Best Cross-Breed category.

Every walk turned into a social event because he seemed to know everyone and everyone knew him. Despite his intimidating appearance to some at first, he made friends all over the neighbourhood, charming people wherever he went. And for a long time, we just understood each other. I always knew what he was thinking, and could predict if he was planning to do something mischievous just by the expression on his face. 

Above all, no matter what kind of day I was having, he was always happy to see me, greeting me at the gate with his tail wagging and ready for our next adventure. My neighbour was happy about the trust that he and I developed – it meant that she could go out for the day or visit friends during short trips, knowing that her dog was safe with someone who really knew him and his needs.

In July, five years after we first met, tests following a limp he had developed came back with the worst possible outcome: he had an aggressive form of cancer in his shoulder. He wasn’t old by any means, and it floored me. 

I took him for a final walk, and we sat on the grass in the rain. I fed him some cooked chicken, told him how much he meant to me, and thanked him for being my little friend. 

And then he was gone. 

Yes, he might not have been my dog on paper, but he was absolutely my soul dog. 

His passing has hit me harder than I ever expected… harder, honestly, than any other loss I’ve ever experienced. The silence where he used to be is huge. I still catch myself thinking about taking him for a walk, and I have deliberately avoided going anywhere that I know people who knew him will be, mainly because I can’t guarantee that I won’t break down and bawl my eyes out should anyone mention his name. 

And I miss him terribly.