Have Shop Dogs, People. The World Will Be Better for It...

Some people find religion. Some find therapy. I found Theodora — a small, allergy-riddled, beady-eyed gargoyle who crash-landed into my life like a potato from the sky, or a disgruntled gargoyle detaching herself from Ely Cathedral to start an unpaid apprenticeship in a wellness shop.

She came with no qualifications. Ate weird things. Slept on the job. And changed everything.

This is the story of how a cone-wearing gargoyle saved my business, my sanity, and possibly my life.

Shopkeeping for Introverts (aka Business in Hard Mode)

Running an independent shop is not all “cumbaya and bunting,” as Instagram might lead you to believe. You don’t spend your days dancing in beams of golden light, sipping artisanal tea while hand-tying twine around your ethically sourced parcels.

No. You spend a lot of time wondering how it’s possible to take £3.50 in an entire day. You mop mystery puddles. You get insulted by people who think “supporting local” means haggling on a £9 candle while holding a Starbucks.

And if you, like me, are what the medical community refers to as “an antisocial twat,” the social side of retail can be... character building.

Which is where Theodora came in.

She greeted customers when I couldn’t. Gave affection when I had none left to give. She filled the awkward silences and soaked up the bad energy. I was technically the owner — but she was the heart.

And yes, sometimes that heart wore a giant, Elizabethan cone of shame due to her spectacular list of allergies. But even then, she somehow looked like a posh flower and not a veterinary satellite dish.…

The Realities of Having a Shop Dog

Let’s be clear. A shop dog is not a prop.

It’s not just an aesthetic or a marketing strategy (“Come for the aromatherapy, stay for the bulldog with gas”). A shop dog is your co-pilot. Your emotional support furball. Your security team. Your therapist. Occasionally your public relations department (though Theodora was famously selective in who she greeted — which honestly made people feel more special).

But it’s not all sunshine and tail wags.

Some customers will crawl under your desk without warning to “say hello,” and they are not 3 years old. They are 43, wearing Crocs, and getting weirdly close to your dog’s face. You must protect your canine employee, even if it means inventing a very stern “No Touching Without Consent” shop policy and keeping a stash of politely worded laminated signs at the ready.

Still, I wouldn’t trade those moments — or that time — for anything.

The Day the Shop Went Quiet

We only had Theodora for a little over three years. I adopted her when she was two, and I didn’t realise until she left that she had essentially become the other half of my nervous system.

She passed away last year from a vicious brain tumour. One moment she was sleeping under the counter, the next — we were spiralling into emergency appointments and whispered prayers that barely left our lips before they became irrelevant.

She died in my arms. I was singing her a lullaby that roughly translates to:

“Sleep, sleep well, my little king —Even though I won’t. Someday you will have an adult soul... But today, you’re as small as a breadcrumb That fate has sent to us.”

People say “a dog died.” But I didn’t lose “a pet.” I lost my colleague. My emotional crutch. My family. My child.

The floor next to her “office” under my desk filled with flowers — so many I ran out of jars. People cried. People shared their own stories of furry grief. The shop was never quieter.

Grief in a Business Suit

Grief doesn’t clock out. There’s no “bereavement leave” when you’re self-employed and scraping to make rent on a high street where “footfall” often feels like folklore.

I opened the shop the next day. Because I had to. I stood behind the counter with a broken heart and a wobbly smile, and pretended everything was okay. Some of you kindly pretended to believe me.

That’s the thing about running an independent business. There’s no safety net. Just duct tape, hope, and a very real risk that your £3.50 takings won’t even cover your emergency biscuit stash.

But somehow... love pulls you through. Often in the shape of a four-legged gremlin in a cone.

What Now?

Well — Twinkle happened.

Twinkle is part English Bulldog, part chocolate cake, part cranky Victorian child in a wrinkled onesie.

She came from the local RSPCA, and she pulled me back from the emotional cliff with her chunky feet, underbite and her complete inability to respect personal space.

These days, I’m more often found in the garden studio or at my kitchen table, still working, still building Cow on the Ice with a small team of women who are somehow both magical and extremely competent (a rare Venn diagram, I assure you).

Twinkle naps nearby, pulling faces and judging my life choices.

With love,

Eva (and Twinke) x

Founder, Lady Boss and Head Dreamer at Cow on the Ice.