Bertie’s Gift: What a Rescue Dog Taught Us About Resilience, Gratitude, and Love

We said goodbye to Bertie today.

Bertie’s story starts under a classroom floor.

Somewhere in a remote Aboriginal community in the far north of Western Australia, in the heat and the dust, a litter of puppies curled up beneath the wooden slats of a school building. Born into thirst, into hunger, into the dark. 

Bertie was the runt—small then, but destined to grow into a dog with a quiet strength that made him feel larger than life.

Somehow, he survived.

And then, somehow, he found us.

By the time he came into our lives, he was timid, quiet, withdrawn. Not scared, exactly—just…waiting. 

Watching. 

Taking it all in. 

He had learned early that the world could be cruel, so he moved carefully through it. But underneath that quietness, there was something else. A gentleness, a knowing. A kind of gratitude that wasn’t loud or needy, but steady. 

Certain. 

Deep.

He was an ‘always by our side’ kind of dog. Never pushy, never demanding. Just there. Just present. Always grateful for his second chance.

Bertie loved to chase a ball. For a dog who had started life small and weak, there was something pure and joyful about the run—the full stretch of his legs, the exhilaration of the chase, the triumphant return, tail wagging, eyes bright. 

Until one day, his knees gave out.

One went first, then the other. Two knee reconstructions later, the chase was over. The arthritis followed, creeping in, making sure he would never run the way he used to. But even then, he didn’t complain.

He learned to love sitting in the sun, to watch as the ball rolled past, as if remembering. He still wanted to be part of the game, even if he couldn’t play it. There’s something in that. That moment in life when we realize we can’t do the things we used to, and we have to decide what comes next. Bertie chose to adapt. To find joy in the stillness where there used to be motion. To accept what his body could no longer do and love what it still could.

People talk about gratitude like it’s something you choose. Like it’s a mindset you wake up and decide to have. 

Bertie taught us otherwise.

His gratitude wasn’t something he performed. It wasn’t wagging his tail wildly, or jumping up to lick our faces, or begging for attention. It was in the way he stayed close. In the way he never tried to run away, never broke the rules, never took more than he needed.

He was never destructive or reckless, but house training took some time. He wanted to get it right, to understand the routine, to be sure of what was expected. Once he learned, he never got it wrong. He had seen the other side. And he knew what this was worth. People who have known suffering often carry gratitude differently. Not loudly. Not in bursts of enthusiasm. But in small, steady ways. In the simple act of staying close.

Bertie didn’t just stay by our side. He understood us. He knew.

When Amelie was sad, he knew. 

He’d curl up beside her, pressing his warm, steady body against her, quiet and sure. No fuss, no demands. Just there. 

When Toby was anxious, he knew. 

He’d nuzzle in, grounding him, offering the kind of reassurance that needed no words. 

When Cynthia needed protection, Bertie became her shadow. Always nearby, always watching, always making sure she felt safe.

When Jus and I went through stressful times, he knew. 

He didn’t need to be called or reassured—he just placed himself in the space where comfort was needed, steady and certain, a quiet anchor in the storm. He didn’t fix anything, but he didn’t need to. He was simply there.

He was not a towering presence, but a steady, quiet one. Big enough to lean into, strong enough to protect, soft enough to comfort. He wasn’t a loud dog. He didn’t bark much. But he understood us in ways that most people don’t.

When you’ve been through something—when you’ve lived in the dust, in the hunger, in the uncertainty—you don’t just bounce back. 

You move differently. 

You trust carefully. 

And you learn that resilience isn’t about pretending it never happened. It’s about finding a way to live in its aftermath.

Bertie never became the kind of dog who ran wildly through fields, tongue lolling, without a care in the world. He was always a little cautious. Always watching, always aware. 

But he loved. 

Deeply. 

Quietly. 

Unwaveringly. 

Because survival isn’t just about making it through the hard times. It’s about learning to find comfort, safety, love—even when your body still carries the memory of suffering.

The thing about dogs—the thing you can never really prepare for—is that they don’t get to stay as long as we want them to.

And when the time came, 

when Bertie’s body couldn’t hold him up anymore, 

when the pain outweighed the joy, we had to make the hardest decision. 

But here’s what we know: grief and gratitude live in the same space.

The pain of losing him…

that’s just love…

turned inside out. 

Enduring.

And grief. It’s proof that he mattered. That he has left something behind. 

A lesson. 

A presence. 

A quiet knowing that even in suffering, even in struggle, love is still possible. 

Gratitude is still possible. 

Joy is still possible.

Bertie lived his whole life proving that.

People always say we rescue dogs. But we think Bertie rescued us.

He taught us that gratitude doesn’t erase pain, but it gives it meaning. That resilience isn’t about being unbreakable—it’s about being soft anyway. That love, real love, is in the staying.

And now, even though he’s gone, he’s still here.

Because love like that doesn’t leave. Not really.

It lingers.

Always by our side.