18/10/2025
It’s been a little over four months since I lost my mum. The initial shock has slowly settled, and I now find myself able to speak about her a little more. I’m not writing this post to seek sympathy. I’m writing it because memories have a way of resurfacing when you lose someone, and today, one of those memories came back vividly.
We’ve always had dogs at home. There was never a time without one, two, three or even four running around. A home without dogs would have felt incomplete. All of them were fed home cooked meals. Back then, butcher scraps were the norm.
For the longest time, I thought my love for dogs came from my dad. He truly loves them, but as I started recalling these moments, I realised something important. It was my mum who cooked for the dogs every single day. Not once was their food delayed or skipped. Even when colourful kibble first appeared in stores and we brought some home, she quietly pushed it aside and continued cooking.
At the time, I didn’t fully understand it. Today, I see it differently. That simple act of care, done every day without question, is a memory I hold close. It’s a quiet reminder of how love often shows up in the smallest, most consistent ways. I am truly grateful for that lesson in fresh feeding, one I had long forgotten but now advocate so proudly.
💔
