Goodbye, Bruno: Farewell to the most irrepressible Cavalier

My last story was a testament to the longevity of this blog. I didn’t expect the next one to serve the same purpose. But the passage of time becomes especially real when you find yourself marking the third loss of a dog since you started writing.

Bruno was the third Cavalier King Charles spaniel to grace my life since moving to England, and without question the most precocious.

He was a ruby—a rich, rusty golden-red from nose to tail, with the exception of a small white spot on his forehead that would have disqualified him from the show ring. But I never wanted a show dog. I wanted a companion. And oh, what a character I got.

I’d previously had a black and tan and a tricolour; the rubies are the rarest of the four colours approved for this breed (Blenheim being the fourth), and there’s something undeniably beguiling about the redheads. Or at least, Bruno thought so. He carried himself with the self-confidence of an emperor and the entitlement of a celebrity. I had never met a dog so convinced that the world revolved around him.

Only after I owned a ruby did I discover, through chats with other Cavalier owners, that they all seem to share this streak. They insist on being top dog—even when they’re the youngest. They crave attention. They’re most generously described as “characters.”

Bruno took that description and ran with it. He was, without doubt, the worst-trained of all my Cavvies. We tried. He ignored. But in a poetic twist of fate, I think he was also the most beloved.

Everyone adored him. Family, friends, strangers, especially his dog walkers—many of whom have been in tears this week. “It’s precisely because he was such a character that I loved him so much,” said his Auntie Cora. I suspect she speaks for many.

He had far more energy than Mr. Darcy, my stately first of this breed. And he was far more emotionally needy than Datchet, his immediate predecessor. But in all the ways that mattered, Bruno was pure Cavalier. The soulful eyes. The obsessive need to cuddle. The inability to be in a room without a human. The reluctance to exercise, balanced by world-class talent in the art of napping. And of course, the Cavalier’s signature vice: gluttony.

Over the years, we spent a small fortune nursing him through various culinary indiscretions. Garden frogs. Chocolate. Raisins. A particularly memorable incident involved him managing to consume ten days’ worth of his heart medication in one go. Only quick discovery and the swift (and expensive) intervention of an emergency vet saved him. We were told that should have killed him. Instead, we got nine extra months.

We suspect it was gluttony that killed him in the end, though. He wasn’t himself one morning. The vet guessed he’d eaten something he shouldn’t have, gave him something to settle his stomach, and sent him home. At the time, all signs pointed to recovery. Five hours later, he was gone.

He was originally acquired as a companion for Datchet, then seven years old and growing lonely after the death of Mr. Darcy. It seemed a sensible idea at the time. I think it’s fair to say Datchet wasn’t so sure. From the beginning, Bruno stole his toys, claimed the best spots in the bed, and behaved like the toddler who’s never told "no." No respect for age or hierarchy. Datchet tolerated him. Eventually, they learned to get along. Bruno may have been a pest, but he was a pest with the face of an angel. All humans forgave him everything.

It was the dynamic of that odd couple relationship that made us decide not to get another puppy when Datchet passed. We didn’t want to start over, or risk more rivalry. Besides, Bruno didn’t need to be a role model. We let him be one of a kind.

And so now, for the first time in 25 years, I find myself in a dog-free house.

The emptiness is overwhelming.

I lived alone for much of my adult life, never sharing a house with a partner until I moved in with the man who would become my husband in 2010. So, used to my independence, I'm never bothered when my husband is away on business. But a house with a dog is never truly quiet. There’s always the background hum of another life. The gentle snore. The sigh. The click of nails on a wooden floor.

Without it, the silence is deafening.

Farewell, Bruno. You were maddening. Hilarious. Infuriating. Adored. The house feels very wrong without you in it.