My Dog Died Then She Came to Me in A Dream
She gave me the closure I didn’t know I needed
In the summer of 2002, I wandered around a busy shopping centre amidst the chaos of the post-Christmas crowds. I felt dazed and sick to my stomach. I’m unsure how I managed to get dressed that morning, get in the car, and drive to the shops. I’d just emerged from a drunken stupor and felt like the discarded trash of yet another overindulgent festive season.
There was nothing festive about my Christmas. It had been three weeks since I discovered my husband’s gambling addiction. Our life savings were gone after his eighteen-month spending spree. Since then, we’d faked our way through the rituals for the sake of our ten-year-old daughter, Morgan. We made a pact—well, I did. He was out, and we would separate and tell her the news as soon as New Year’s Eve was over.
It was the longest lead-up of my life and played out as I expected, like a tsunami. The foundations of our sixteen-year marriage were torn apart as my mind struggled to cope with the unthinkable debris. Morgan went to my parents for the remainder of the holidays, and in my solitude, I turned to a vodka bottle, hoping for oblivion. It worked — temporarily.
As I emerged from my bender on day three, my alcohol-resistant body screamed in protest. I knew it would be a quick death if I kept drinking, and then what would become of Morgan? I had to snap out of it. I had to do something to distract myself from the whirlpool I was drowning in before she came home.
Being in public made me paranoid. What the hell was I doing roaming a mall in that state? My eyes kept welling up as I thought about George—my husband—and all I’d lost. My cycle of grief was stuck on sad pity party.
And then I saw them — puppies in a pet shop window. With my forehead and hands pressed against the glass like a wide-eyed kid witnessing love in its purest form for the first time, a smile spread across my face, and my heart turned to mush.
In the corner, away from the rumbling, boisterous pack of black cuteness, she sat alone, gazing up at me—the runt of the litter.
The sign read ‘Purebred Rottweiler Puppies — six weeks old.’
I felt an instant connection to her. I imagined she felt just like I did — alone and out of her depth. She didn’t stand a chance against her brothers and sisters, who were twice her size. It was clear she needed saving — we were kindred spirits.
The likelihood that they were purebred Rottweilers seemed far-fetched. A breeder wouldn’t sell their puppies to a pet shop. If I’d been thinking clearly, I probably would’ve just kept walking—what an unimaginable loss.
But something spoke to me. I knew I had to save her, and I did. I named her Angel because she felt like a gift during such a dark time in my life. But as it turned out, she was the one who saved me.
An unbreakable bond
Over the following weeks, I channelled my broken, displaced love into Angel. She gave me a reason to wake up each morning. I discovered a new purpose. I spent every precious moment with her as we formed a bond deeper than I’d ever had with the dogs from my past. It felt as though I could read her mind, and she seemed attuned to my every move.
I’m a bit of a dog whisperer. I possess a sixth sense about them—an innate understanding of their needs.
I could simply look into Angel’s eyes and know if she was cold or hot, thirsty or hungry, in pain and where the pain was, or if she felt sick and needed grass — a dog’s medicine. I could do this with my childhood dogs, and I still do it now with my current dog, Ruby the Rottweiler.
Morgan fell in love with Angel, just as I knew she would. But, as is typical with kids, they move on to more exciting things once the novelty wears off. MSN Messenger — no Snapchat back then — consumed her spare time, and Angel was hardly noticed. Still, at least she’d initially done the job I’d hoped for — distracting Morgan from the pain of her father’s absence.
George and Morgan were bonded in ways I’d never known. My father’s cold heart and disregard for girls made me an inconvenience more than anything. I knew from a young age that I was a disappointment, so I learned to become invisible. Unlike my brothers, I was neither seen nor heard, and this worked to my advantage.
In retrospect, Morgan and George were opposites—a dream team, a perfect duo with the same silly sense of humour who could finish each other’s sentences and sync into every mood. They were inseparable. When he left, he took a part of her with him, but I didn’t notice until one day in early February.
With a sense of unease in my gut, I watched Morgan push food around her plate. I set my fork down and glanced towards Angel, who sat at the back door in silent contemplation, observing us.
She’s not eating. She’s pretending. She misses her dad too much. I imagined Angel saying.
I glanced back at Morgan and noticed her bird-like frame. When did she become so skinny? A wave of utter despair washed over me as my inner critic yapped in my ear with relentless negativity—I wasn’t doing enough to help her. She needed her dad.
George came home on Valentine’s Day in 2002. The date wasn’t planned, but I took it as a symbolic sign from the universe: a second chance, a do-over, a clean slate. I pushed my worries way back into a virtual folder marked ‘Don’t Look at This.’ I pretended everything was normal. My default setting was denial; why change now? Idiot.
Everything felt right in the world again as Morgan began eating, and a smile returned to her face. That was worth more than all my worries and doubts.
What was happiness anyway? My joy was in the backyard with Angel, my confidant and faithful companion. She knew all my secrets. I’d sit with her when no one was home and pour out my heart, raw and vulnerable, as my tears fell on her head. She’d rest her chin on my arm and gaze at me as if she could see into my soul.
It’s okay, Marce. Everything will be OK. I love you. I imagined Angel saying.
Best friends forever
We’d sit on the grass beneath the clothesline and gorge on the mangoes and avocados that had fallen from the fruit trees Dad had planted. Angel could strip a mango seed to baldness, leaving no trace of mango visible. She was also a destroyer of plants.
I knew it would take a few years for her to grow out of her destructive stage, but she’d be five years old before she lost interest in plants. Menace.
I’d wake up some mornings to find her gnawing on a banana leaf twice her size. Who needed toys with so many falling branches? Or I’d see her sitting among the enormous Monstera plant like a sphinx goddess sheltering from the hot sun.
She’d look at me as if to say, What? Is there a problem?
Trails of dirt and mud were constant — just another day in paradise.
Fuck’s sake, Angel. What have you destroyed now? What’s wrong with the hundred balls and toys you have? Great. I planned on being late for work today anyway.
She hated the car. I once gave her a car-sick tablet for the four-hour drive to Mum and Dad’s. She was zonked for days. I must have given her too much. Her puppy stage lasted twice as long as it should. Mum said I’d probably given her brain damage from drugging her. It was more likely crossbreeding. She was like a silly Labrador before they were trained — purebred, my arse.
Angel was my running partner. Running pulled me out of my head and into the moment where every measured breath mattered. She’d shadow my steps, and we’d fall into the rhythm of our stride in perfect harmony.
Rain or shine, we’d run every morning. Some mornings, when the rising sun filled the sky with more colours than could fit on the spectrum, it would take my breath away, and we’d stop to admire its sheer beauty.
“Oh. My. Lord. Would you look at that, girl? Isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”
And she’d look up, panting, yes. I imagined she’d say.
We were locked together in our human-canine relationship. Our intense beginning made it inevitable. Angel felt like an extension of myself— she knew my every truth. She was the best friend I’d ever had.
I listened to the wrong voice
As I sat cross-legged on the filthy shed floor surrounded by boxes of stored memories, struggling to comprehend the latest gut-wrenching betrayal George had committed, deep sobs escaped from me.
After I gave him a second chance and trusted him to do the right thing, he did the opposite five years later. He was gone, and I was left to sort out the mess once more. There would be no more chances.
My mind was like a sieve. I grasped at details, but my thoughts slipped through the holes, unable to catch anything solid. I was frantic in the madness. I hugged my knees to my chest as unstoppable, dusty tears streamed down my face.
Angel sat next to me. I could sense her concern. She licked my face and rested her paw on my leg. She was trying to comfort me—my sweet, faithful, loving friend. She would once again become my confidant and sounding board as I battled with myself in the aftermath.
As time went on and I reinvented myself, my life became focused on friends and socialising. Morgan was eighteen, so I hardly saw her anyway. I spent less and less time at home, giving Angel little attention apart from our morning runs. Even that became sporadic. I’d often be out or too hungover from some event the night before. Life was a party once more.
I remained a dutiful master, providing Angel with food, water, toys, and treats, but my undivided attention wasn’t hers anymore. I loved her, but she became secondary to my new single life. I would pat and kiss her as I came and went, while my busy world moved like a constant revolving door.
Through it all, Angel remained steadfast, always waiting at the door for me, hoping — probably — we would pick up where we’d left off — when her days were filled with my endless chatter and my need to be close to her.
Those days were gone for my poor, devoted Angel.
Life settled when I met Ramzi in April 2012—we’d marry later that year. A fellow dog lover, he instantly warmed to Angel, and they became friends. I can only imagine her joy at having company again. Finally, her master was home more often, and with a backup master, her life had a purpose once more.
The sad ending
The noise pierced the stillness of that warm February night. A commotion from the backyard jolted me awake. What was Angel up to now? It sounded like she was wrestling with a cat in her doghouse—poor cat.
Ramzi and I went to investigate, but I wasn’t prepared for what we’d find. Angel was having a seizure. Her body was thrashing violently, and she was foaming at the mouth. I’d never seen anything so disturbing; it was as if she was having an epileptic fit.
“Oh my god. Angel!” My distraught voice rang out. I placed my hands on her, hoping she’d stop, and with my touch, in minutes, she did.
“I’ll get the car. We’ll take her to the all-night vet.” Ramzi wasted no time.
I didn’t need the vet to tell me; I already knew it was her time. A brain tumour had taken hold, and it would only get worse if she lived.
And as the vet injected that lethal shot, I held her paw and stroked her head like I’d done a million times before. She looked at me for the last time, and I swear I saw tears in her eyes — or it could’ve been mine.
“Bye, girl. I love you. Thank you for saving my life.”
Her eyes rolled back and shut. I felt the life seep away from her as her soul left her body. She was gone, and a part of me went with her.
The dream
Grief and guilt consumed me. I couldn’t shake the thoughts of the years I’d neglected her while reinventing myself. How could I have done that to her when all she lived for was to love me?
I didn’t sleep until the next night. It was restless and unsettling. And when I finally dozed off, there she was. As real as if she were right next to me.
Oh, the overwhelming joy I felt! She was still alive, not dead after all. Sitting on her hind legs, I fell to my knees so we were at eye level. I wrapped my arms tightly around her and kissed her head and face over and over. We hugged, her head firmly nestled in the crook of my neck, then I pulled away to look at her.
She knew everything. She felt my regret and guilt, and now my happiness and love at her return. She knew I was dreaming; I didn’t. Then she spoke to me, not with her mouth but with her mind.
“I have to go now, Marce. But I want you to know, don’t be sad. There is no need. I love you. I have always loved you. You were the best owner I ever had. It’s okay. I’ll be seeing you…”
She rose to all fours and walked slowly away. Taking one last look over her shoulder at me, she smiled, just like in the movies.
“Don’t go!” I yelled out as I sat upright in bed, sobbing uncontrollably as Ramzi wrapped his arms around me.
“It’s okay, darling. It’s just a dream.”
I never dreamt of Angel again, but I thought about that dream for years. She’d given me peace when I couldn’t grasp it and closure on my negative self-talk. I hadn’t failed her. I’d never stop loving her, and she knew it.
It would be almost ten years before Ruby came into our lives. She’s not a replacement; that could never happen. Ramzi and Ruby are like Angel and me. I’m the third wheel in their relationship, and I’m okay with that.
I sometimes forget and call her Angel; she looks at me like I’m a dork.
“You remind me of her,” I say under my breath.
She’s still waiting for you. I imagine Ruby saying.
In loving memory of my Angel — a loyal companion and saviour
22.11.2001–6.2.2013
Thanks for reading, friends. Your dog knows more than you think. Make their short years count. Never miss a moment.
A version of this story was first published on Medium.
© Marcia Abboud 2025 | All rights reserved
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I love this story, Marce. You and Angel had a beautiful, intuitive understanding of each other. You're so right when you say that dogs know more than we think. She would have understood your need to reinvent yourself.
This happened to me! Kind of a messy story my dog had liver disease most of her life but she was mostly healthy and my x husband and I took her everywhere on trips from Hollywood to Vancouver BC. When she would get sick I would home cook her food, administer her meds. She would have so many vet appts and procedures but she had a love of life. My x husband and I split up and I let him take her since he could afford the vet bills. She had taken a turn for the worse and my x flew me down from Portland to L.A. she couldn't walk anymore but by golly I got her to walk with chicken I would hold up the chicken and get her down the elevator to walk on a patch of grass and get fresh air. The last night before I left my cat held vigil over my dog all night, she knew it would not be long. In the morning I got my dog out on one last walk and I think she was doing it to make her mama proud as I was her trainer. I flew back to Portland and the next day my x called me and she was on her way out, he had to have her put down. I sobbed and sobbed and I had a dream. A few days later it was. She came with her new pal a spotted guinea pig. BAM I woke up it was around 330am and the message was clear as a bell. The guinea pig was my x's long before we met. Our dog was letting us know she was okay. At many times I would feel her by my side often when I think of her. She is one of my animal spirit guides, part border collie/cattle dog.