Today is the 1st of September, it will be exactly one year since Dolly died - Dolly was my cat. Even now, the date feels heavy. Grief doesn’t fade on a schedule; it settles into the corners of your life, into the quiet moments, into the places where someone used to be. Dolly wasn’t just a cat. She was the creature I loved more than anyone in my family, the one constant through some of the darkest and loneliest periods of my life.

Seventeen years ago, I was living in a beautiful home in inner‑northern Brisbane, but something was missing. My little dog — a stray I had rescued years earlier — seemed lonely when the house was quiet. I decided he needed company. So, I got on the internet. Within minutes, I saw her on a Gumtree advert: the most beautiful moggy I had ever seen. Love at first sight. Destiny. Fate. The next day she arrived, and Dolly — as I named her — walked into my life like she had always belonged there. She was one year old, past the kitten stage, which in hindsight was a blessing.

I had had a cat before, years earlier in Hobart in my early 20s. Sophie. I am convinced she was possessed by the devil himself. She refused to be toilet trained and treated my apartment like her personal dumping ground — even doing it in front of guests during a cocktail party, loudly with no shame. Sophie didn’t last long. I vowed never to have a cat again. So, when Dolly came along, I surprised myself. Something in me had softened.

Her previous owners had named her “Grubb.” They were from Wavell Heights, which explained a lot. The name didn’t suit her at all — she was fluffy, well‑groomed, elegant. She would sit on my chaise lounge overlooking the courtyard, constantly grooming herself like a queen. I suspected her previous home hadn’t been the best environment for her. About a week later, I was buzzed on moselle, singing along to Barbra Streisand’s Hello, Dolly. Then it hit me. Dolly! and Dolly she became.

At first, she wouldn’t come into the bedroom and hated being cuddled. But over time she became a one‑person cat — and that person was me. It was a love story. She adored me, and I adored her. She was with me through the ups, the downs, the debilitating hangovers, the dark thoughts, and one of the darkest periods of my life — the kind where you start contemplating things you don’t want to admit out loud. Anyone who has met the black dog knows exactly what I mean.

She was my stabilising companion. My emotional anchor. With my relationship situation at the time, she became the top of the pyramid in the home. The poor dog got demoted to second place — still loved, but Dolly was the queen. Eventually I moved to a property where only one pet was allowed. I had to make the ultimate choice: Dolly or the dog. Thankfully, the dog went to my partners parents to retire, and Dolly stayed with me. A real Sophies choice moment, pardon the pun.

Remarkably something changed in her, a major shift, a personality change. She became more loving, even vocalising — something she never used to do. She started cuddling with me at night, propped up above my head on the European pillows like Cleopatra surveying her court. She became my shadow, almost behaving like a dog. She greeted me at the door when I came home and demanded attention. I don’t think I’ve ever loved an animal the way I loved that cat.

As time passed, she slowed down. At first, I thought it was age, but I sensed her time was coming. In early August that year, I noticed her coat wasn’t as well-groomed as usual. I started cleaning her with baby wipes and damp face towels. She became slow to rise. She stopped drinking water and eating the chicken I hand fed her. The last two days were extremely difficult.

That final night, I placed her beside my bed in her own little bed with a lukewarm hot water bottle, her blanket, and her mouse pillow. The bed she never really used before. I wanted her suffering to end. I decided that if she made it through the night, I would take her to the vet in the morning. At 2:00am on the 1st of September, I woke up. I turned on the lamp and looked down at her. She appeared to be peacefully asleep. I reached out to pat her — and realised she was gone. Sixteen years and ten and a half months together. Gone in a moment.

I sat in silence, staring at her lifeless little body. I then screamed hysterically and cried, tears streaming down my face — the sound that emanated from my being the most mournful sound I have ever made. My heart not only broken but shattered into pieces.

I arranged for her to be buried next to her old mate, the dog. I am told a nice flower bush was planted on top of her. A few days later, I washed her blanket and placed it in a box with her collar and mouse pillow. It now sits in the back of my wardrobe, amongst my prized loafers, luggage and coats.

It has been a year now, and my grief is still there. But I am thankful for having had this exquisite, beautiful creature in my life. Pets are more than animals — they never hurt you, they give unconditional love, and they stay when others walk away. She was there for me when I had been hurt or let down. She never left my side, something I can’t say about family. Never had I had experienced such fierce loyalty and companionship from a beloved pet. I miss her terribly.

I recently found a photo of her and put it in a frame. She sits right next to my side of the bed, keeping guard, those gorgeous green eyes staring directly at me. I truly believe animals come into our lives for a reason, and there were times she saved me. She died at sixteen years and ten and a half months old. If she had lived just six more weeks, she would have turned seventeen. A lifetime, and yet not long enough.

When I think of her, I still hear her little bell tinkling away.

Dolly — 2008 to 2025