A Birmingham jeweller's story about loss, love, and the final collection she'll ever create.

The morning after my dog Milo died, I woke up and reached for his collar.

I don't know why. Force of habit, maybe. For 13 years, that's what I did first thing grabbed his lead, slipped on his collar, and we'd head to the park before my tea got cold.


But that morning, my hand just closed around empty air.

He was gone. My golden retriever. My best mate. The only one who never judged, never complained, never left my side through the hardest years of my life.

And I had no idea what to do with myself anymore.

The last day I got to hold my lovely Milo...

What started as something private just for me slowly turned into something bigger

Handmade. From the heart. Driven by memory and meaning.

About three weeks after we said goodbye, I couldn't stand looking at his collar anymore. That worn brown leather with the brass tag that used to jingle when he ran. It just sat there on my kitchen table, reminding me he wasn't coming back.


So I did something I hadn't done in years—I pulled out my old jewellery tools from the back of the cupboard. I made a pendant. Nothing fancy. Just a simple piece with his paw print pressed into silver, the way his muddy prints used to mark my kitchen floor every time it rained.


When I wore it the next day, something changed. A woman at the café in Birmingham noticed it. Asked about it. When I told her about Milo, she started crying right there at the counter.

"I lost my cat six weeks ago," she said quietly. "I'd do anything to carry her with me like that."

That moment stuck with me.

 

The first pendant that I made by myself

I made one piece. Then another. Then another.

What caught me off guard were the messages.

 

People didn't just want jewellery. They wanted to talk about their animals. The greyhound they rescued who spent his last years sleeping in patches of sunlight. The tabby who sat on their chest during every panic attack. The old horse who taught a scared child how to trust again.


These weren't pets.

They were family. The ones who stayed when everyone else left. The ones who loved us on our worst days.


I realised something important: We don't grieve animals less than we grieve people. We just grieve them differently. Quietly. Sometimes apologetically. Like we're not allowed to be heartbroken over something that couldn't speak our language.

 

But that's rubbish, isn't it?

The love was real. The loss is real. And it deserves to be honoured.

Me in my small studio making the animal jewellery

Today, I'm 70 years old. I still make every piece by hand in my home here in Birmingham. My workshop is simple: a wooden table, a window that lets in good light, and a small notebook full of stories like my own.


Every piece I create holds someone's story. A spaniel who loved swimming in the canal. A rabbit who thumped his foot every time the kettle whistled. A horse who always knew when someone needed comfort.


The animals are at the centre of everything I do.
Because to me, they were never "just pets."


They're a reminder that healing doesn't have to be complicated. That love doesn't need words. And that the ones we've lost stay with us even when we think they're gone.

Some of my favourite pieces that I made

After Years of Keeping Memories Alive, It's Time to Say Goodbye

I've made a decision. I'm retiring. And I'm closing my shop this weekend. I won't be making any new collections after this. 

What's left now are the last pieces I'll ever create for those who know what it's like to lose a companion who mattered. Once they're sold, they're gone forever.


I don't make jewellery for people who want something pretty to match an outfit. I make it for people who understand that love doesn't stop when a heart stops beating. For those of us who still reach down to stroke a dog who isn't there. 

 

Who save the last photo because deleting it feels like losing them twice. 

 

Who know that grief is just love with nowhere to go—so we carry it close.


Milo's been gone four years now. But every time I press a paw print into silver, I feel him beside me. 

Still teaching me that the ones we love never truly leave us. They live in the jewellery that catches the light. 

 

In the weight against our chest that says: You were loved. You are loved. That never changes.

If there's an animal who changed your life, who you still think about every day, this is your last chance. 

 

These are the final pieces I'll ever make.

 

With Love,

Edith Baker

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