Goodbye to a legend

​There are some dogs who arrive in our life as clients…
and then there are the ones who stay long enough, deep enough, and true enough to become family.

Gus was the first dog we have ever had to say goodbye to who had been with us since he was a tiny puppy.

His parents came for the meet-and-greet weeks before he even arrived in Cape Town, excited and prepared for their new boy — and from the moment he first stepped into our home at nine weeks old, he quietly became part of the fabric of our lives.
He never felt like “a client.”
Not then, not ever.
My heart responds to his name the way it responds to one of my own dogs — that familiar swelling, that soft ache, that quiet smile that lives behind the ribs.
​
From the beginning, Gus was a presence.
A character.
A little soul with a big imprint.
And without us realising it at the time, he would go on to help shape the path that later became Beagle in Mind.

​The humour that made him Gus

If Gus did something he shouldn’t have, and you said,
“Gus… what have you done?”
He would immediately lift his chin, glance down at you with those sideways embarrassed eyes making slits, then tuck his head under your chin in the most dramatic apology pose… while the tippy-tip of his tail wagged like a malfunctioning metronome, paws on your shoulders almost wrapping around your neck.
You couldn’t stay cross. Not even for a second.
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And then there was his relationship with the little pug puppy named Grim who used to stay — a partnership that can only be described as chaotic affection.
Grim would antagonise Gus.
Gus would chase him, grab him by his doggy coat, spin him two or three times like some kind of canine fairground ride, and fling him.
We were horrified the first time.
Grim, however, would get up, march back to Gus, and demand another round.
This was their Thing.
Their strange, joyful little dance.

That was the essence of Gus: full of life, full of humour, full of life, full of heart.

​The moment he became family

It was probably long before this but there was a day his mom had to go away unexpectedly, and Gus had a vet appointment for his ears. So I loaded every dog into my old Polo — mine, guests, fosters, everyone — and off we went. The vet left the room for a moment, and in that stillness Gus turned around on the exam table and climbed straight into my arms.
Not just a lean.
Not a “comfort me” nudge.
He wrapped his front legs around my neck.
His back legs around my waist.
Pressed his head into my throat.
And refused to let go — while the vet examined him like he was a toddler being checked while clinging to his mother.
That was the day it shifted.
That was the day I knew — truly knew — that he saw us as safe. As his people when mom is away.

​The teacher we didn’t recognise at the time

We taught him recall without ever leaving the property.
Actually, without ever leaving the lounge.
It wasn’t a formal lesson.
It wasn’t “the plan.”
It was just us figuring things out because he needed help and in helping him, he taught us how Beagles learn.
How they think.
How they respond.
How to bridge instinct with understanding rather than force.
So much of what we teach now — so much of the foundation of Beagle in Mind — began there.
With Gus.
With a dog who loved deeply, learned uniquely, and showed us that trust is the real starting point for everything.

​His presence in our home

​If I close my eyes and think “Gus,” I see him sitting by the spare bedroom door — that familiar little sentry position of his.
As if to say, “I know this is the way out for when Mom fetches me. I’ll just wait right here so I’m exactly where I need to be when it’s time.”
It was so quintessentially him: the mix of independence, routine, and that quiet loyalty he carried everywhere he went.
A presence that shifted, over the years, from quirky youngster to wise old soul — still solid, still humorous, still grateful for every moment he was given.
Magic.
That was the only word for him.
He was magic to be around.

​The Stories His Mom Shared With Us

Over the years, Gus’s mom shared so many stories with us — those real-life, honest, “only-a-Beagle-could-do-this” moments that had her at her wits’ end and had us quietly chuckling at times and supporting, figuring out or learning right along side her at others.

Like the time she painstakingly fixed and fenced off her garden…
only for Gus to find a way through the fence, get himself stuck on the other side, and wait there as if to say,
“Well… I’ve made a mistake, now get me outta here.”

Or when she had guests over and kept him outside for a moment, and he decided the most reasonable solution was to clamber halfway through the window — his back half dangling outside, his front half inside, stuck in the burglar bars, waiting for assistance like a slightly embarrassed yet rather pleased with himself toddler.

Or the time he managed to escape, only to sit quietly on the sidewalk waiting for someone to find him because he wasn’t entirely sure what to do with this sudden freedom.
Gus was brave… until he wasn’t. And then he waited politely.

There were the midnight messages too — the ones every true Beagle parent knows.
The night she woke up to find he had poo’d in the bed.
Or when he politely woke her for a wee, went outside, returned… and then wee’d in his own bed anyway. Or broke into her landlord's dogs' food bin and had to have his stomach pumped.

She was young, and she loved him fiercely. We thought more than she even knew. 
And through every mischief, every mishap, every confused adventure, she loved him and learned from him — and we learned right alongside her.

Not just about behaviour, but about health, skin issues, ears, allergies, nutrition… all the things that later became part of what we teach.

Those shared stories stitched us all together — Gus, his mom, and us — into a bond of learning, laughter, friendship, frustration, and love.

They were the moments that built history.

The moments that built understanding.
​
The moments that built us.

​The message that broke us open

This week his mom let us know that the vet was on the way to help him cross over.
And that was the moment everything hit — the years, the memories, the lessons, the tiny comedic moments, the big soul moments, the hours and days and weeks he spent as part of our family.

The way our own dogs helped raise him.
The way he welcomed fosters.
The way he settled into our routines as though written into them from the start.
The way he helped shape what we now teach, guide, encourage, and hold space for.

Gus lived big.
He loved big.
He mattered — in ways we will only continue to understand as time goes on. In ways we didn't realise until we heard it was time to say good-bye.
​
To his mom:
We love you.
Thank you for trusting us with him.
For allowing us to be part of his story.
For sharing your boy with us all these years.
You did everything right.
You gave him the best life.
And we are honoured — truly — to have been part of it.

Goodbye, Goose.
​Goodbye, Gustopher.
Goodbye, Gustav.
Goodbye, Gustafferson.
Goodbye, Gussie.

Goodbye....our beloved Gus.

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"No one should leave this earth without knowing what chocolate tastes like"
​- N Angouras