The Beach We Left Behind

By Steve Goodall

I remember it all so vividly. It was March 2025 and I was left home in the “Dog Dad” role as most of the team were at Crufts representing PACT. The weather had been amazing and I decided to take Penny (aka Penguin, our little Jack Russell Terrier) to her favourite place: the beach. We’re lucky to have many beaches near us here in Pembrokeshire, all within 25 to 30 minutes, but there is one that Penguin likes the most: Newport Beach.

We fell in love with this beach many moons ago when we were here on holiday, and that love affair has endured through visits to countless other local beaches. When the tide is out, it’s a huge expanse with lots of space for dogs and enough room to navigate potential doggy mishaps if necessary. This particular morning, I’d checked the tide times to make sure low tide coincided with our visit, and as we crested the top of the hill on our drive down, I saw something I’d never seen before. The beach looked—at least from way up the hill in my car—to be completely deserted.

I couldn’t believe my luck. Sure, I’d been there when there were only a handful of people and dogs, but that was more than likely in the depths of winter. Today was a bright, spring day, and the thought of Penguin and me having this whole place to ourselves was incredibly exciting.

What followed was one of the most memorable times I’ve ever spent with Penny. The sheer, joyous time we had on that beach is almost indescribable. It’s tempting to replay it all through rose-tinted glasses and sepia-toned memory, but it really was a wonderful time to be alive. The way her paws squelched in the wet sand as she hit top speed chasing skeletal leaves blowing across the bay. The glint in her eyes as she goaded me to play chase or run with her just for the joy of it. We were there for a whole hour and not another soul arrived on the beach for the entirety of it. We ran, we paddled, we played, and dawdled together having the absolute best time. I remember reaching for my phone to video a little snippet and second-guessing myself because I wanted to be present. I did record some of it and, as it turns out, I’m so very glad I did.

Penny and myself enjoying some fun at Newport Beach

The Line in the Sand

Fast forward to September 2025. Corrin and I were back in Southampton attending our in-person student fieldwork sessions when we received a disturbing call. Penny had suffered a freak accident. Whilst playing in the garden, she’d crashed into some concrete steps and was clearly injured. Corrin rushed off to her whilst I stayed at fieldwork. We had no idea what she’d done to herself, but she was almost immobile and clearly in pain. I remember thinking that it looked bad then, but I had no idea it would mark the end of one chapter in our lives and the start of another.

The first milestone to get our heads around was the fact that the vets immediately prescribed complete crate rest, with tiny little, on-lead walks in the garden for no more than a few minutes. I remember that the weather for the first two weeks was terrible, with heavy rain that didn’t let up at all. I sketched a little picture of Corrin, Penguin, and me standing in the rain, us holding an umbrella above Penny as the rain pelted us on one of her toilet visits. I wanted to capture the love and commitment we had for her—and each other—as the situation felt desperately sad.

What followed were anxious weeks trying to find out exactly what had happened to her. Was it her knees? She’d certainly been monitored for luxating patellas in both knees—could the accident have exacerbated this? Was it a spinal injury or worse? We embarked on a period of examinations and tests that culminated in an incredibly expensive, yet frustratingly inconclusive MRI scan at a specialist's. We rested her until she regained enough mobility to walk for 10-minute stints, then set about starting physio. We even created little obstacles for her to navigate, as per the physio instructions, but every time we seemed to be getting somewhere, there was a gut-wrenching setback around the corner.

To be honest, I knew all this was to be expected. When we share our lives with any animal, this is what we sign up for, right? The good, the bad, and the beige. What I didn’t know was just how hard we would be hit by grief.

The Emotional Paradox

The emotional paradox hits you right in the face. We still have Penguin—she’s right here as I write this, same dog and same incessantly adorable attitude. We still love her to the ends of the earth, yet the one thing I never factored in was how profoundly we would mourn the dog she used to be.

Penguin of Pembrokeshire!

It hits you out of nowhere sometimes. Perhaps you spot the long line gathering dust in the corner. Perhaps it’s when you're watching other dogs living their best lives, sprinting after each other with abandon and joy. Perhaps it’s when the weather is beautiful, yet you still have to limit and manage her environment. And, perhaps worst of all, it’s when we visit her favourite beach without her. The feeling is hard to describe: a heady mixture of envy and deep sorrow. Nearly ten months on and I still feel it; perhaps I always will? This next bit might sound weird, but I’ve managed to find a way to give myself permission to feel it and, perhaps more importantly, to acknowledge that this grief is real, heavy, and exhausting.

Through processing our own journey, I’ve come to realise that this quiet, ambiguous grief isn't exclusive to sudden accidents like Penguin’s. It belongs just as deeply to those living with senior dogs—owners who spend their days watching the slow, agonising erosion of the vibrant companion who once hiked miles by their side.

And perhaps most invisibly, it belongs to the owners of “reactive” dogs. Their grief is different, but no less heavy: they are mourning a life they thought they were going to have. They grieve the lost dream of easy Sunday pub lunches, carefree park strolls, and relaxed doggy playdates, replacing that vision with hyper-vigilance, endless management, and altered expectations.

Whether a dog’s world is rewritten by an injury, eroded by age, or constrained by big emotions, the underlying heartbreak is identical. We are all mourning the gap between the life we imagined for them—and with them—and the reality we now live.

Reshaping Our World

The shift from dreamy, spontaneous long beach walks to carefully planned routines, medication schedules, and furious diary writing came thick and fast. We redesigned our living spaces to cater for her. We bought a framework for our bed that is designed to stop babies/toddlers falling out so Penny could still sleep between us (one of her favourite things to do).

We started taking her out in a pram we’d purchased, which was easier said than done. Our little terrier, synonymous with pure, untamed momentum, didn’t get the memo that these pram-assisted walks were supposed to be calm affairs that enabled her to sniff smells and enrich her mind. Of course, she didn’t understand why she couldn’t get out and "terrier" her way through the landscape.

"Caregiver burden" is real. The vigilance required builds as a quiet fatigue and slowly drains you. You might even find yourself dreaming of those beach walks and waking up heartbroken. The outside world seems to speed along as you slow down to a crawl, desperate to fulfil her needs and the expectations you’ve placed on yourself.

Penny in her “All Terrain Terrier Mobile” & being lifted to scan the skies for invaders (a favourite past time)

Perspective Shifts

I’m taking the time to carefully write this as I hope there is something you may be able to take away from our story. It is an undeniable human instinct to dwell on the past or future, yet despite that, the one thing I’ve come to see is Penguin’s innate ability to live in the now. She isn't lying there at night, in her toddler-proof bed, regretting September 2025. I’ll never know if she’s even missing that beach walk in March 2025. With all the evidence I can gather, she is simply living today.

My definition of what now constitutes a "good day" has also shifted. It’s moved from a sepia-toned memory of a beach walk to smaller things: her shifting to snooze in a sunbeam on the living room floor, the way she wiggles in the grass now she’s comfortable enough to roll on her back, the way her injuries have never stopped her mischievous stalking of any winged insects that dare to invade her bubble, and the legendary freeze indication we’ve developed for scent work since her injury.

I could name a hundred more of these tiny joys that perhaps I missed before. I’d even go so far as to say that although I grieve the carefree Penguin of Pembrokeshire, the love Corrin and I have for this vulnerable, resilient Penguin of today is deeper, fiercer, and even more profound.

To Anyone Stuck in the Dark

When I sat down to write this, I had a hope my story might help anyone else stuck out there in the dark know they aren’t alone. I had also, perhaps a little selfishly, hoped the process would be cathartic for me—perhaps even help me through the grief a little. I flirted with the notion that it may kickstart a fresh, shiny new perspective on things.

Sitting here now, I’m not so sure that’s how it’s supposed to go. Life deals you blows and we roll with the punches. I have learnt that we need the grief. It’s okay to cry for the life you lost while still showing up for the life you have now. It’s a part of the journey. New challenges will come around, and perspective, whilst not free, is seldom earned without going through something significant.

A few weeks ago, I found myself home alone once more. I decided to take a long walk without my dogs to Newport Beach. As before, I checked the tide times, set off, and found myself cresting that hill once more. To my surprise, once again, there was hardly anyone else there.

As I walked across the beach, watching the light sparkle off the wet sand like a billion stars and listening to the waves roll in, I thought back to that glorious day once more. This time, however, it was different. This time, the pangs of sorrow and grief were absent. All that remained, for that time at least, was a cherished memory I’ll never forget that lives alongside our life with Penny now.

It made me smile.

Cherished memories