It was a Sunday morning, and after our walk, Darcy sat on my lap while we enjoyed a coffee outside Gail’s on Fulham Road. She was not yet a year old. A woman stopped to admire her and asked what breed she was.
Some time later, we met a fluffy red Cockapoo near our home. His name was Rocko, and he was with his mum, Jasmine. She reminded me that she was the one who had asked about Darcy’s breed that day. Inspired by Darcy, she decided to get a Cockapoo of her own. Before long, our dogs were having regular playdates, happily romping around together.
Rocko was Darcy’s first love, her very first boyfriend. They adored each other.
Over time, Rocko became a stud dog and his attention turned to other girls. But Darcy never stopped loving him. Whenever we crossed paths in the neighborhood, her excitement to see him never faded.
When we learned that Darcy was terminally ill, we brought them together one last time. She was hardly herself, drained from the hemangiosarcoma that was slowly taking her away.
I’ve run into Rocko and his son, Enzo, a few times since then. But last Sunday morning, Jasmine called, and my heart knew something was wrong. She told me she had to say goodbye to Rocko the day before. He had just turned 12.
Darcy would have been there waiting for Rocko, reunited with her first love.
Their passing reminded me of how time is flying past, that life moments are fleeting and to always remember to love and be loved each and every day.
