20/06/2025
The Dog Who Leaned In
A celebration of Ruby and what it means to be kind.
Dearest Ruby,
I’m writing this now—only hours before you’re gone—because I want you to hear it.
And even though deafness has taken hold, I know you’ll feel every word.
You’re that kind of dog.
So here I go, Ruby. I’ll try not to cry.
Because you’ve shown me that love isn’t always cast in tears, but in quiet presence, in gentle care, and in all the moments we choose to stay.
When someone once told the frightened young Ruby to lean into life, I think she misheard and believed they said to lean into a leg. And that’s exactly what she did. Ever since.
“Will you take her?”
Four words. Fourteen letters. A question that would change Ruby’s life—and mine.
Although it wasn’t those words that did it.
It was my answer.
Yes.
One word. Three letters. That changed everything.
I gave her life.
She gave me love.
Ruby gave everyone she met love—as she leaned into their leg. There are countless photos and recounted memories of her doing just that. But her first connection with legs came from something far more painful. The ones that were once used to kick her.
Ruby was a purebred Red Kelpie, purchased for $1,000 to “work” sheep. But from the beginning, she refused.
Despite the weight of expectation that money and breeding placed upon her, despite the beatings and the harsh words, and despite the pitiful, withdrawn state she was forced into—she simply would not comply.
She would not “work” those sheep.
Though she was branded dumb and stupid—perhaps even then, she knew what kindness was and didn’t want to have any part in something that may send animals to their death.
So her “owner” decided to shoot her. He took her to a friend to do the job. The gun was loaded. The trigger, half-pulled.
And Ruby—leaned in.
To their leg.
And to their heart.
The gun was lowered. The phone was raised. The call was made.
Ruby arrived in my world on July 6th, 2009—a date etched into my bones. She shuffled nervously toward me, tail between her legs, back hunched, trailing urine. And then, as if flicking a switch, she launched into what became her famous pogo-stick routine, her tongue flicking wildly as it tried to mark my face.
But she didn’t need to as she’d already left her pawprint—on my heart.
The plan, of course, was temporary. I already had my quota of dogs—ET, Jaspar, Rory—and my mum’s little Peppi. I’d help Ruby heal, then find her a loving home.
But Ruby had other plans. And eventually, I caught on. We humans can be smart if we try.
She gained weight and confidence in equal measure. She happily deferred to the others, never trying to be top dog. Humility, it turns out, was her first lesson to us all.
And though she greeted each new day with puppy-like joy, a shadow still clung to her. A dropped rake. A backfiring car. A sudden loud word—each sent her crumpling to the ground in a pool of fear and urine.
And every time, it broke our hearts all over again.
Yet Ruby’s compass was compassion. She leaned in. She forgave. She offered her heart freely to the very species that had so wronged her.
The healing power of forgiveness was the next lesson she taught.
Ruby loved life, and life, it seems, loved her back. She adored animals—especially piglets. She loved our volunteers and tagged along for every task. She comforted the sick and new arrivals, earning her the title “Vet Nurse Ruby.” She loved tours—though truth be told, any day ending in “y” was her favourite.
But most of all, she loved me—the Lady in the Hat.
There was never a moment I doubted that. And despite my divided attention and countless others in my care, she never doubted me either. Not once.
She loved unconditionally. Another life lesson from Ruby.
Oh, if only I could be half the person Ruby believed me to be.
Ruby was wise beyond her canine form, as so many dogs are. She knew when to nudge, when to stay close, when to simply be. Her empathy was effortless, and it helped carry mine.
Now, as tears stream down my cheeks, I realise I’m not crying for Ruby.
I’m crying for me.
Because Ruby is free now. Young again. A bright red Kelpie bounding alongside Edgar Alan Pig, with piglets nipping joyfully at her heels.
Though she saw the worst of humanity, she chose to believe in the best of it. And maybe, in choosing to believe it, she helped create it.
She had every reason to give up on people.
Instead, she became our reason to believe in them.
Dogs reunite us with the best parts of ourselves.
Even the human who was to shoot her had a moment of return—when he laid down his weapon and picked up kindness instead.
Right until the very end, Ruby held love in her heart and softness in her paws. Not even kidney disease and arthritis could rob her of that.
Because love doesn’t walk away when the light fades—it leans in closer.
And in hushed tones, I softly add: “Especially when it begins to dim.”
Later today, when that time comes, I promise not to let her see me cry.
But she will know I am crying on the inside. She always knew.
She’ll lick my face.
A gesture I once held as taboo.
But this time, I’ll let her and hold it as grace.
And I shall always feel her there—in the quiet, and in my heart.
I will not say Ruby died. She did not pass away.
She has simply moved on—to a place we’ll all get to someday.
And when I arrive, I know she’ll be there. A handsome pink pig by her side. And that same tsunami of joy, bounding up and down, tongue at the ready there to greet me.
And I’ll probably take one on the cheek.
Now that Ruby is gone from my world, the silence is deafening. A whole language beyond words has vanished. The tap of her paws on the floor at midnight—and the encores that followed. The shape she made curled at my feet. That little brown nose peeking around the door each time I went to the bathroom, even though I reassured her there was only one exit. The hoarse bark that replaced her ruffs post-laryngeal paralysis surgery.
I remember once, near the end of one of our walks, I carried Ruby back to our little cabin. Someone looked our way, puzzled. I smiled and said, “She ain’t heavy. She’s my dog.”
Honestly, I would’ve carried her to the moon and back if it would have saved her.
Instead, I will carry her in my heart—forever, and one day more.
Because dogs make us whole.
And love comes full circle.
If I could ask Ruby what she’d want us to carry forward, I believe she’d say:
Be kind. Be kind like Ruby.
A dog whose mission was kindness—and who completed it beautifully.
Dearest Ruby. Bright-eyed Ruby.
I trust this celebration of your life, your love, your truth—honours you, in the way you have always, always honoured me.
I love you. I have loved you. And I always will.
Who else could do a poo poo in my hat and still have me hold nothing but love in my heart?
There has been joy.
There have been tears.
There has been deep, bone-deep sadness.
And yet, it has been perfect.
Because you were in it.
I am so honoured you chose me.
Godspeed, beautiful lady.
Godspeed.
Thank you 🙏 to Paws In Peace, Vetcall Animal Hospital and Romsey Vet Surgery for always caring for dear Ruby.
“If we could live happy and healthy lives without harming others, why wouldn't we?”
