The Photo That Changed Me: the puppy who turned heartbreak into hope

British journalist and author Sophia Money-Coutts is known for her sharp, witty writing – but one snapshot from a summer day in 2024 captured a moment that would quietly reshape her life.

It was a Sunday. June 23 2024. I can remember the date like a mother recalling the day she went into labour, although I find comparisons between puppies and babies embarrassing. They’re not that similar – I don’t want to be one of those women who talks of her “furbaby”. Still, that was the day that I drove to a small farm steading just outside Birmingham to pick up a 10-week-old terrier puppy I’d already christened Dennis, then brought him home to London.

I wasn’t alone. My then-boyfriend had come with me, and took this photo not long after we got back – Dennis in a bag only because he hadn’t yet had his second batch of injections and couldn’t be put down on the pavement. We’d had a long drive south from the farm and wanted to take Dennis out for some air, stretch our legs and show off the new puppy to neighbours and passers-by who cooed at the sight of his fluffy head poking over the side. My right arm is clamped tightly on the bag to prevent Dennis from wriggling free and crashing to the tarmac. Maybe new parents gingerly carrying car seats from the maternity ward feel the same (oh look, there I go again). I don’t recall what the fire engine was there for. I was so consumed with my puppy that I was barely aware of it. After several weeks of waiting, I’d finally brought Dennis home.

My wide smile feels ironic now, because that was the last time I looked perky for several months. Firstly, because during the long house-training process, I had to wake two or three times a night to carry Dennis into the garden. Secondly, because not long after that, my boyfriend left me.

I’d long thought of getting a dog. I live in a ramshackle flat in southeast London with a large garden, overrun with squirrels that leap from branches, and overlooked by cats that sit on the fence, tails switching, watching the robins dart in and out of my birdfeeder. There’s a huge, undulating park at the end of my road and a vast wood beyond that. As a writer, I’m also a big walker, often heading out when stuck on a chapter or paragraph. A good stomp eases the words. It’s a lovely but lonely existence, and a dog would keep me company, both at my desk and in the woods. But I wasn’t brave enough to get one by myself.

Then I met my ex via a dating app and we fell quickly and madly in love. He’d been about to give up dating, he told me, before we met. He’d tired of it, had been married and had children already, so he’d also been considering a dog. Why didn’t we get one, I wondered aloud, a few months into the relationship.

We’d lie in bed together, legs entwined, scrolling through photos. Should we rescue a dog? Should we get one from Romania? Or should we get a puppy from a litter after careful and thorough research to ensure we weren’t falling for a puppy farmer?

“We could each get one from the same litter!” I boldly suggested at one stage.

“What if we broke up?” he replied – and I laughed, knowing that was impossible.

Eventually, I found a litter of tiny, furry terrier puppies online, Parson terriers, the same breed that my mother has long had. They’re clever, funny, naughty, obstinate and will shred any soft toy in under five minutes. That was exactly what I wanted, so I went to visit the litter without my boyfriend at first, because he was having a tricky, turbulent time with work, and decided on a small boy with markings that looked like the world map on his back.

We picked him up a month later, the day that photo was taken. In the intervening weeks, I’d bought a crate, a dog bed, multiple dog toys, multiple balls, taken out a subscription for fancy raw puppy food, registered with the vet and loaded up on puppy pads and poo bags. I also read several books, which promised it would be hard. Sure, sure, I thought, but I’ve grown up with dogs. How hard can it be?

Really, really difficult, it turned out. It wasn’t just the lack of sleep. It was the claustrophobia of being unable to leave Dennis alone for more than an hour. Darting to the supermarket made me feel guilty. I cancelled all meetings and appointments for the next month. My carpets were trashed. I panicked several times that he’d die after chewing and swallowing little pieces of a Biro lid, or part of the dustpan handle, or a bottle top he found under the sofa, or a cork. Lie-ins vanished. I had to be up and playing with Dennis from 6am, leaving my boyfriend lying asleep in bed. The books were right: it was exhausting.

“I think I’m beginning to feel the effects of Dennis,” he warned, a couple of weeks before leaving. It didn’t make sense because we’d talked of “forever”, and our own children, and whether we’d retire to Italy or Spain. He’d been so certain – and then suddenly he wasn’t. I was heartbroken and, on the day it happened, as I sat crying and smoking in my overgrown garden, Dennis kept coming and dropping tennis balls at my feet – little presents, as if he was trying to make me feel better.

The break-up was a good thing, I know now. Ultimately, I’ve ended up with Dennis and I’m out of a toxic relationship. The right way round. But ironically, without my ex, I’d never have had the confidence to get the dog I’d always wanted. That’s why this photo makes me smile – this was the day everything started changing. Not that I had any idea of it, back then. Perhaps the fire engine was an omen?