Adrian Barich: a sad farewell to our last pug, Lily, and a thank you for the lessons about love and loss

I’ve lost my title. The Pug Man of Subi is no more. It was a nickname I’ve worn with pride, thanks to three beautiful squishy-faced little pugs who have been a big part of our family story.

But this week, the story took a heartbreaking turn. Our last pug, Lily, is now no longer with us.

Lily was special. She lived to the ripe old age of 15. A grand age for a dog. We were told she was a purebred pug, but as she grew, our vet confided something that shocked us: Lily wasn’t a pure pug. We’d been conned.

It came as no surprise really, as she has a proper nose, and as many would know, a “real” pug’s face is one of nature’s great contradictions.

It’s squashed, wrinkled, bug-eyed and completely ridiculous. But somehow utterly irresistible. Like a face only a mother could love . . . except everyone loves it.

For Lily it turned out to be a blessing. Her mixed heritage might just be why she outlived her pug siblings, who sadly passed at just 10 and six years old, taken by lymphoma.

In the end, though, it’s true that dogs only have one real flaw: they don’t live long enough.

Lily’s final days were tough to watch. She had what the vet described as a neurological issue. Her legs had basically stopped working properly, and one of her eyes wouldn’t stop twitching. She was confused and scared and couldn’t move around without falling over.

The world around her no longer made sense. It was distressing to watch. The vibrant little dog we’d known for so many years had faded before our eyes.

Ever the supreme optimist, initially I thought it was just a passing phase and maybe she’d sleep it off. But alas, nothing changed.

We knew. It was time. The vet kept reassuring us that we were doing the right thing, even saying it was an honour to help Lily go. And I could tell she truly meant it.

Lily was magnificent when younger. Picture a fawn pug, but with a longer nose than usual, almost like a gentle cross between a pug and a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

She had the lovable charm of a pug. Pugs, of course, being the clowns of the dog world.

And now the Barich household feels emptier. We’re down to Frank, our new dog, a Cavalier-French Bulldog cross, plus a cat named Tom and a rabbit saddled with the handle Kevin.

Frank seems as lost as the rest of us, searching for Lily, eager to play with his old friend.

Dogs are extraordinary creatures. They are so joyous. A good dog asks for nothing, forgives everything, and is always thrilled to see you. That’s greatness right there.

But there are always so many great days and then one really horrible one.

Lily, thank you. Thank you for loving us more than you loved yourself.

For thinking we were a big deal (it was all the validation I needed, I can tell you).

Your snuffles, your grunts, your barks, your wagging curly pig-like furry tail. Every twitch of your ears was a question, a statement, an invitation to be loved and to love back.

After years with dogs, you begin to understand them deeply. You know what every little sound and movement means. Dogs are the purest example of unconditional love known to man and the best role models for being truly alive.

Saying goodbye to a beloved dog is one of the harder things a parent faces. Dogs aren’t just animals, they’re loyal companions, constant shadows, cherished family members. They celebrate your best moments and silently comfort you in your worst.

We are grateful for every moment with her, for every snuggle and every wag. We are grateful for the lessons she taught us: about joy, resilience, and the preciousness of time.

As someone once said: “Dogs come into our lives to teach us about love. They depart to teach us about loss.”