He was not “just” a dog

This week marks two months since my dog Oisín tragically passed away after a series of overnight epileptic cluster seizures. The initial shock and heartache of losing him still seem surreal, as if I’m caught in a state of denial. I often glance toward the kitchen or bedroom, half-expecting to see him running in, tail wagging, saying, “Mum! I’m back! I just had a brain transplant of sorts! So, where’s my dinner?”

Having a pretty good experience-based grip on how neurological illnesses work, I know that such whimsical thoughts are far removed from reality because there is no magic cure for a wildly misbehaving brain that has become increasingly erratic. Given that neurological diseases run rampant in the family – including our pets – I knew that Oisín had turned from a cheeky, gentle, 3.5-year-old Whippet into a dog who had had one seizure too many, thereby having no quality of life left. The day of his passing is still a total blur as utter numbness and bewilderment transformed into a sadness I had not experienced since the passing of my only sibling over a decade ago.

All that remains now is a broken heart, and I feel lost without him. The heartache, tears and longing keep his memory alive because I cannot yet compartmentalise my grief. The empty silence that fills my home from morning to night is deafening, and I wish his passing were just a bad nightmare.

Since Oisín graciously awarded me a certain quality of life as my MS-guru, I felt it was my duty to place him on a pedestal—something he would humorously remind me of as he seemed to understand that he was more than what I had ever wished for in a dog.

Not only was he the cutest, funniest and most loyal companion, but unknowingly, he became my physiotherapist, reminding me to keep moving, and an occupational therapist who encouraged me to find new ways to adjust my daily routines more effectively. Under his guidance, I became more self-assured in what my physical body could still do, and I found new strength in places I didn’t know I needed. Most importantly, he was my closest and best friend, a reason to get up every morning and enjoy life.

As such, our 3.5 years together were filled with purpose, with such joy that the same measure of grief seems impossible to overcome. Oisín showered me with so much love that losing him has left an open, bloody, painful wound. The weight of his absence is heavy; I struggle to accept that the warmth of his body is now forever cold. Gone is the love we both thrived on, leaving a void where daily affirmations and a deep bond once shone. Such a profound physical and emotional loss cannot but lead to shadows instead of sunshine, and the past two months feel like years, even when his death itself feels like it happened just an hour ago.

Whippets, often called a ‘Velcro-dog’ for their very affectionate nature, have such tender souls that, when matched with my own, created a canine relationship unlike any I had before. Wherever I went, Oisín followed, resting his head, legs and torso against me, even in the most physically awkward of ways. At night, he would sleep on my bed or crawl under the duvet to stretch his long, warm body out against me, his head next to mine. This kind of closeness, though, never felt like Oisín was clingy due to a lack of confidence. Instead, he was always full of poise and conviction: a love bomb, an expert snuggler, a reflection of our bond.

So, when people talk about their dogs’ positive influence on their lives, others may think, “You’re overly sentimental, it’s just a dog.”

But to those who have had the luxury of having a fur baby, they have never been “just” pets.

On the contrary, they become an integral part of your family. I’m sure dogs feel the same, although they must wonder why we are missing two legs and a tail, and why we don’t seem to share their love of eating grass and sniffing each other’s backsides as much as they do.

Dogs can be clowns and magicians, better than antidepressants; they are four-legged creatures that can shift the ‘sadness’ barometer reading back to ‘doing fine.’

Oisín was all that and more.

He was a temple of love.

An intuitive MS neurologist.

Bad hair day? Unconditional love.

Forgetting his breakfast at 8 AM? Unconditional devotion until at least 9 AM.

Multiple sclerosis flare-up? Extra cuddles – much better than my daily regimen of 29 pills and daily Copaxone injection.

Ergo, he was not “just” a dog.

“I got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

It seems that Oisín was born to be my MS buddy. Whippets have characteristics that are well-suited for people with specific MS symptoms, like myself, as hyperacusis causes sound sensitivity – and Whippets are known to keep their barking to a minimum. My MS fatigue is severe all the time, and unlike any normal tiredness – Whippets are much lazier than the public often realises and can do without running half a marathon every day. In addition, they love to keep your bed and couch warm, and whenever possible, they enjoy using their human as a mattress to sleep on or lean against, so the fatigue department is kept neatly managed under their excellent control.

Sadly, though, MS symptoms can be severely unpredictable, yet Oisín began noticing differences in my symptoms fairly quickly and acted to what I needed.

When I had vision and speech issues, he seemed to grasp that these were moments that required more visual prompts; if I had trouble swallowing food, he barked to show that his human was in trouble and that I needed help. He almost innately knew when excruciating trigeminal neuralgia (TN) was about to happen, starting with unbearable, stabbing nerve pain in and behind my left eye, followed by pain in the rest of my face. TN, that wretched, evil pain that makes people take their lives because of the severity of the pain. TN is enough to make you find a damn good CBT therapist to help you tackle associated PTSD and learn to take your mind off the recurring excruciating neuropathic pain. Yet, when under attack from TN, Oisín looked at me as if to say, “I’m here, I got you, I’m not going anywhere. You can count on me.” In addition, when daily severe fatigue kept me depleted of energy, he showed me we could always play when I felt better. The list was endless. Oisín was the easiest-to-please MS nurse who learned fast and forgot even faster, just like his human. He reminded me that there is always tomorrow when my body refuses to cooperate.

So, no, he was not just a dog. He was a safety blanket, and I was so proud to be his human, his Mum.

“Playtime, Mum!”

At times, he could be incredibly serious one moment and joyfully carefree the next. I sometimes wondered if he had just made a discovery as significant as Sir Isaac Newton’s theory of gravitation, as he seemed to believe he had just done something earth-shattering. I, of course, happily went along with him.

For all the seriousness he had, he was equally as playful, like a forever nine-week-old puppy.

In what became a daily occurrence, he felt it necessary to evaluate his human’s level of numbness in the middle of the night by placing rubber toys under the duvet, waiting for me to turn over, and saying, “Hey boy, wanna play? It’s midnight, but sure, let’s play catch!” I later began taking pictures of him doing so, turning them into conversations I posted on my personal Facebook page. These turned him into a celebrity of sorts, with friends telling me to transform these posts into a social media channel of his own, but I never got that far.

Never mind his other less lethal attributes – sixteen rubber balls, three Kong toys, two IKEA dolls, one furry snake, one furry pig, two red circus rings, two purple bones, one natural bone, one triangular rubber toy, and so on. It ended under the duvet if he felt it would wake me up. His toy collection turned into a repository of joy. Call it the Alexandria Library of Dog Toys; you name it, he had it.

But it didn’t matter which he picked or how I reacted to it; I would be rewarded with a bucket load of cuddles soon after, preferably by crawling on top of me to reward me with slobbery kisses.

He was all sass.

He was my most curious companion, a fearless friend, a cuddly confidant, and a knight in shining armour who came between me and any perceived outside interest that might have swept me off my feet.

Today, as I navigate my grief, I realise that pictures cannot hug me the way Osh used to, nor can he transform into holograms for me to experience him again.

I wish he could see himself through my eyes and realise that he was the best friend anyone could ever hope for. In the 3.5 years we spent together, he never growled at me, bit me, or acted aggressively toward me. Friends and family have noted that it was clear he lived the life of a king, and every picture confirms that he was loved and happy beyond measure.

In the end, when I took him to the vet that fateful morning – I cannot even remember how I got there, to begin with and how I got home; I never felt so helpless, so numb, so in shock, so empty as if my brain went on a hiatus for a fortnight. The trauma of hearing Oisín wail for 30 seconds while on the phone with an emergency vet, asking if they could please collect him for further investigation, these sounds will forever haunt me.

There are many stages of grief yet to be tackled, and I am safe in the knowledge that I am not alone. I am supported by family and friends who understand what grieving for a pet is like and what Oisín meant to me. He earned his place in the pantheon of loved and lost, but letting him go will be hard work, as I feel he is still here with me. Sometimes, the purest connections are the ones we have to let go first, but Oisín is one dog I will never get over, that much I know.

Oisín, my boy, I hope you left this world knowing how loved you were, knowing that when you went to the vet that morning, I didn’t want to leave you behind. Already traumatised by watching you have seizure after seizure and numbed by grief knowing what was to come, I was shocked to the core, and it took every ounce of strength I ever needed to turn around and go home to wait for some news from the vet, good or bad. I don’t believe in heaven or hell, but I hope you are OK wherever you are, and hope you can still remember all the silly things we got up to, what you meant to me and how many people loved you.

You were more than just a dog. You saved me, and I am so sorry I could not save you.

Please wait for me wherever you are.

THIS POST IS DEDICATED TO ALL THOSE WHO LOVED AND CARED ABOUT OISÍN, INCLUDING HIS VETERINARY TEAM, NEIGHBOURS, FRIENDS, FAMILY AND MOST OF ALL, MY MUM FOR THE IMMENSE LOVE THEY SHARED.

THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT AND EVERYTHING SINCE.

About coping with pet loss:

The 7 Stages of Grief: Essential Insights for Coping with Pet Loss

Coping with the five stages of grief after losing a pet

Losing a pet after 15+ years, the unique stages of grief

Understanding the five stages of grief

2018 Winner Best Blog Post, Ireland Blog Awards by Ashville Media Group, Dublin, Ireland

◾ Everyday Health: Top 10 MS Blogs to Follow in 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2018

◾ Feedspot: Top 45 Best MS Blogs and Websites in 2025, 2024, 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018, 2017

◾ My Therapy: Multiple Sclerosis Blogs: 10 of the Best

◾ MyTherapy: Best MS Blog for Simplicity 2018

◾ Blog Awards Ireland: Finalist 2017, 2015, 2014; Winner Best Blog Post 2018 (Awards competition discontinued from 2019 onwards)

© Willeke Van Eeckhoutte and Ireland, Multiple Sclerosis & Me, 2011-2024.