28/08/2026
I wasn't expecting this photo to make me cry.
Recently, I had the most incredible professional shoot with Fetch and Pose Brand Photographer for my business, and this photograph was never supposed to be about Mr. Gibbs.
It was supposed to represent something that's incredibly important to me within my business - safety, transparency, and the reasons we use Tractive collars.
And it still does.
But then I saw the finished photograph.
And there he was.
My Mr. Gibbs 🐰
Not physically, of course, but captured so beautifully in the tattoo I carry of him.
And suddenly, a photograph that was supposed to represent my business became incredibly personal.
Because I realised that, in a strange way, he is still part of everything I do.
I lost Mr. Gibbs Christmas just gone.
And grief has taught me that sometimes it doesn't announce itself.
Sometimes it finds you in a photograph you weren't prepared for.
Sometimes it finds you months later, when you thought you were having a perfectly ordinary day.
Sometimes it reminds you that someone can be gone, and yet somehow still appear in the most unexpected places.
People say,
"He was only a rabbit."
But they never met you.
They never heard your feet thudding across the floor.
They never watched you wait by the fridge,
certain that every rustle of a bag
meant a carrot was coming.
They never knew that some days,
you were the reason I got out of bed at all.
You were there
when my whole world fit inside a VW Polo
(and Mr. Gibbs took half that room in the car, rightfully so).
When my heart was broken, more than once.
When I stood on the edge of having nothing.
When life felt heavier than I could carry.
You saw versions of me
that no one else remembers
or ever got to see.
The one who cried on the bedroom floor.
The one who felt lost.
The one who didn't know
how they were going to make it through another week.
And through all of it,
you stayed.
You never cared
how much money I had.
How successful I was.
How broken I felt.
You only cared
that I came home.
And somehow,
that was enough.
Some people won't understand this part.
And that's okay.
But to me,
you weren't "just a pet."
You were my child.
There was a time in my life
when I was told I could never have human children.
I later learned that wasn't true.
I will always choose a life where my animals are my children,
it doesn't change what you were to me.
Because I've never needed to give birth to something
to feel that overwhelming need
to love it,
nurture it,
protect it,
and give it the best life I possibly can.
That's how I love my animals.
They aren't possessions.
They aren't something that simply lives in my house.
They are family.
They are loved.
They are cherished.
They are protected.
Their needs come before my convenience.
Their happiness matters to me.
Their safety matters to me.
And when they hurt,
I hurt.
When they're frightened,
I want to make them feel safe.
And when they're happy,
somehow my world feels a little happier too.
That was the love I had for you.
A fierce,
protective,
nurturing kind of love.
I worried about you.
I planned my life around you.
I protected you.
Even when my own world was falling apart,
I made damn sure yours wasn't.
You, Mr. Gibbs,
were one of my children.
And Roary still is.
You spent the last four years of your life together,
sharing a home,
sharing a family,
sharing me.
And even now,
when I look at Roary,
sometimes I see little pieces of you.
Every night,
I gave you a kiss,
said goodnight,
and imagined seeing you in the morning.
Because there was always another morning.
Until there wasn't.
I didn't know
that would be our last goodnight.
I came downstairs
expecting another ordinary day.
Another breakfast.
Another carrot.
Another morning with you.
Instead,
I found you gone.
I have known pain before.
I have known loss.
I have known loneliness,
fear,
and heartbreak.
But I have felt no greater pain
than the moment your heart stopped beating.
When I found you,
it felt as though my own heart
had torn straight through my chest.
The scream that left my body
didn't sound like me.
It was grief.
Raw.
Unfiltered.
A lifetime of love
breaking all at once.
I wanted the nightmare to end.
I wanted to wake up.
I wanted to find you waiting for breakfast,
hopping across the floor
as though nothing had happened.
But morning came,
and you were still gone.
There is one thing
I will always be grateful for.
You were home.
Your final moments were spent
in the place you knew.
The place you felt safe.
The place where you were loved beyond measure.
And for that,
I will always be thankful.
But I've learned that gratitude and grief
can live side by side.
Because while I'm grateful
you were safe at home,
there is still a part of my heart
that breaks knowing
I wasn't beside you when you left.
I wish I could have held you.
Kissed your head.
Told you one last time
how unbelievably loved you were.
And whispered,
"It's okay, Mr. Gibbs.
You can rest now."
Then life carried on.
Because that's the cruel thing about grief.
The sun still rises.
The kettle still boils.
Work still needs doing.
Birthdays still come.
My birthday in May
was my first without you in so many years.
And when I blew out my candle,
I didn't wish for money, success, health, love,
I wished you were still here.
I still hear you sometimes.
A thud on the floor.
A sound near the stairs.
Your box still sits beneath the stairs, along with your ashes, toys and imprints.
where you slept at night.
And sometimes,
without thinking,
I still reach for a carrot.
Then reality finds me again.
I've come to realise that grief
is a little bit like glitter.
You can clean it up.
You can think you've found every last piece.
And then,
weeks,
months,
even years later,
you'll find a tiny speck somewhere.
It catches the light.
And suddenly,
there it is again.
That's what this photograph was.
A tiny piece of glitter
catching the light.
I went into that shoot
to capture something about my business.
About safety.
About responsibility.
About transparency.
And somehow,
without anybody intending it,
it captured you too.
Maybe that's fitting.
Because before you were my grief,
you were my joy.
Before you were my loss,
you were my home.
Before you were my memory,
you were my child.
And perhaps part of the reason
I care so deeply about keeping the animals entrusted to me safe
is because I know exactly
what it feels like
to love an animal with everything you have.
If I had the choice,
knowing exactly how our story would end,
I would still choose you.
Every single time.
For every thud.
Every cuddle.
Every carrot.
Every goodnight kiss.
Every moment.
To some,
you were a rabbit.
To me,
you were family.
My responsibility.
My comfort.
My constant.
My child,
in all the ways that mattered to my heart.
And now,
apparently,
you still have a way
of finding your way into my photographs, and of course, will always belong on the Sit Walk Stay logo.
I miss you, Mr. Gibbs.
Every single day.
And I always will 💕🐰
