New Year's Eve.

The last day of 2023.

Normally, it is a day for looking back at the year, making promises about the next one and pretending that staying awake until midnight is something I genuinely enjoy.

But today feels different. For the last three months, I have been posting, sharing and contacting rescues, offering a home to an XL Bully. I have sent messages and watched dogs appear on rescue pages, knowing that the deadline was getting closer.

Today is the last day. From tomorrow, an XL Bully cannot legally be rehomed.

And I can't stop thinking about the dogs who are still waiting.

The ones sitting in kennels.

The ones in temporary homes.

The ones who don't know that today is any different from yesterday.

They don't know what legislation is.

They don't understand bans or deadlines.

They don't know that humans have spent months arguing about their future.

They only know whether somebody comes to their kennel, whether they get their dinner and whether tonight they will have somewhere warm to sleep.

Somewhere out there is a dog who, yesterday, could still have been offered a home.

Today is their last chance.

Tomorrow, the door closes.

I've spent three months offering ours.

No replies.

No conversations.

Just silence.

And that is difficult to sit with tonight.

As the year comes to an end, I find myself thinking less about resolutions and more about all the dogs who deserved a chance that they may never get.

It feels strange celebrating a new beginning while knowing that, for some dogs, today marks the end of an opportunity.

So tonight, while fireworks begin outside and Nicolas prepares for what he believes is the collapse of civilisation, I will be thinking about them.

The dogs waiting.

The dogs nobody could take.

The dogs who will never understand why.

And somewhere in amongst the noise of New Year's Eve, I will quietly hope that every single one of them finds kindness in whatever happens next.

Goodbye, 2023.

I hope 2024 is kinder.