How it all began...

I can’t remember how it really started. We were like any other family with a small child, hearing the same request nearly every day, and seeing the familiar word on the top of every birthday and Christmas list :

 

My Christmas List (aged 7)

1. Puppy

2. Hermione’s wand

3. Book

4. The Saturday’s CD

5. Anything pink

 

My Christmas List (aged 8)

1.  Puppy

2.  DS

3.  Mobile phone

4.  Anything purple (but no pink)

 

                  My Christmas List (aged 9)

1.  Puppy

2.  Laptop

3.  Vouchers

4.  Anything blue (definitely no pink or purple)

 

And, just like any other family, we had the work commitments that made it impossible to invite a puppy into our home. But one day, and I can’t recall how the subject came up, but I wondered aloud if, perhaps, we could rejig our working hours to make owning a puppy possible. No sooner had the words left my lips, than my partner zoomed into action and logged onto the RSPCA’s website to see what poor homeless doggy might need a loving home. For the next few weeks, our lives were taken over by dog rehoming and adoption sites, we started to lose track which dog we saw on what site, and all the while trying to keep it secret from our daughter – that was the really hard bit, especially when it came to phone calls received in the home while she was around. “This is a very important phone call from work, I must take it outside so I’m not distracted in any way” was more or less the cover story. Slightly harder to explain when one rehoming charity left two messages on the phone, which of course I just played out loud not even thinking as to who it might be. “Hello, this is Labrador Rescue, I’m just ringing to organise a home visit.” Beep beep beep, I’m frantically pressing any button trying to find the volume because you don’t realise how loud these messages are until you want to be extra quiet. Thankfully daughter is out in the kitchen choosing an after-school snack so she is oblivious to everything except food. The next time there’s a message, I take the handset out to the kitchen with me and shut the door. I press play, but am horrified to hear an echoey version of the message coming out of the phone base in the living room where my daughter is sat, as well as out of my handset. I quickly press stop and peep round the door. She has one of her favourite films on quite loud, and thankfully she is deaf to everything except the words coming out of the TV. I wish I knew more about how our phone works.

We finally bite the bullet and make a choice. We’ve spotted 2 springer spaniels, brothers, one black and white, the other liver and white, they look gorgeous and we have all the info we need on them. We organise a day to go and visit them, and if we all get on alright, we can take them away. They are staying in Bath, which is about 3.5 hours away, so we decide to tell our daughter the day before so she can come with us. This is the moment that will stay with us forever. Steve comes home from work, comes into the house and says “Can you two help me with some shopping please?” Secret grin between us. Megan sighs but obediently dons shoes and goes outside with us. Steve opens up boot of car. Inside is a dog basket and toys. “Why is there a dog basket in your car?” asks Megan. We look at her and smile. “Mum, what’s that doing there?” she asks again, a little more franticly. “Are we getting a dog?”  She has a look of disbelief and happiness on her face. “Yes,” I reply, “we’re getting a dog.” She clasps her hands over her mouth and then runs to me and hugs me and buries her face in me. She does not let go for a long time, and sobs are emanating from her. I feel myself filling up. She finally lets go and between sobs she says “I can’t believe it, we’re finally getting a dog.” She is absolutely incredulous, the tears are rolling down her cheeks, she is in absolute shock. With impeccable timing, the little girl from next door (she is 5) comes over to us, and even though we are obviously in the middle of a very emotional moment, she ignores Megan’s tears and starts to tell us about their imminent family holiday. Being the thoughtful and sweet girl that she is, Megan listens and between sobs says to her “Really? Wow, that sounds lovely, you’ll have a great time.” For the next 45 minutes, Megan tries to come to terms with what is happening, and we fill her in on the dogs we are visiting the next day. We show her photos and she falls in love with them instantly. She’s not going to get any sleep tonight.

I won’t go into too much detail about the trip to see the spaniels, but need only say that we came back with an empty dog basket. The spaniels weren’t right for us. Megan was absolutely devastated, and we felt rotten for having put her through such an emotional trauma. She wouldn’t speak to us for the 3.5 hour journey home, but by that evening, she was very mature and understanding and agreed with our reasons as to why we didn’t have them. But we were determined to carry on looking – we were definitely getting a dog and this upset would not set us back or put us off.

We called back Labrador Rescue, and after a successful home visit, it was with incredible speed that we had a call back to say they had a young lab they thought would suit us. He was a black lab called Denzil, he was 15mths old and very sweet and caring. Steve and I went to visit him on our own, and agreed to take him. We were to go back with Megan a couple of days later to pick him up. Megan was quiet when she saw him, and I wasn’t sure whether she liked him, but she assured us she thought he was fab. We took him home, and he instantly weed on the living room carpet, he was so nervous and unsure as to what was going on. This was the third home he’d been in in as many weeks. We settled him down, played with him, gave him food, and lots of cuddles and attention, and Steve decided to sleep on the sofa to be with him for the first night. I had work the next day, Megan had school, and Steve was going to stay at home with him. When I got back home from work, Megan was sat on the sofa watching tv, but looking rather sad. “What’s the matter?” I ask. “Denzil doesn’t like me anymore,” she says, “he growled at me.” I try to assure her that of course he likes her and he’s just settling in. I go to the kitchen, where Steve has shut himself and Denzil in. “He has to go back” says Steve. “What? Why?” I ask. “He’s had a go at Megan, I’ve had to restrain him and shut him in here with me, but he was growling at me as well.” I look at Denzil who has obviously forgotten about any horrendous incident and is happily playing catch and fetch. I suddenly feel no love for him, and a slight fear. Steve adds “I don’t want to keep them in the same room as each other at the moment. I can’t risk it.” For the next couple of hours we all try to digest what has occurred and what we should do about it. Steve decides to call the rescue lady, explain the problem, and ask if we can return Denzil. It is all very upsetting for everyone concerned, and the rescue lady is horrified as to what has happened with Megan, and agrees a return to the foster home is what’s best in this circumstance. Denzil is gone within the next hour. It is very quiet. Megan has gone to bed, and I get out the hoover and clean away all trace of a dog having been here. I put the dog blankets in the wash, clean the kitchen floor, and clear the toys away. I go to bed because I know Steve won’t be back till late.

The next couple of days are very sad, and we have to do a lot of explaining to all the people we’d told about us having a dog. Then the next day I get a call from Steve while I’m at work. He’s had a call from the rescue centre to say they have a lab puppy, female, chocolate brown, 2 months old, the owner is allergic and sadly has to give it up. We jump at the chance, as puppies rarely come up for adoption. We’re terribly excited. I ask Steve for us not to tell Megan after what we’ve been through. It won’t be that easy though, as that evening I get a call from the rescue lady organising pick-up details of the puppy and Megan is listening in and guesses what is happening. I fill her in – we are going to pick up the puppy in 2 days time while she is at school, so we’ll pick her up with a puppy in tow at the end of the school day. She is very happy. And I’m very relieved we’ll finally get a dog.

The next day, the day before pick-up, I get another call at work from Steve. The owner has changed their mind. They’re keeping the puppy. I’m in total shock, I’m outraged, but most of all I’m dreading telling Megan. What have we done to her. She’s only 9 years old  and she’s had to go through this emotional trauma for the past couple of weeks. She won’t understand and she’ll never trust us again. “Next time, we’re definitely not telling Megan, I’m not going through this again,” I say angrily to Steve. In fact, inside, I don’t think I want to go through ANY of this again, I’m suddenly tired of dog hunting, it’s not fun anymore, and I don’t want one.

I have butterflies in my stomach on the way to school, I feel sick, I go over in my mind all the different scenarios. I imagine her coming bouncing out of school singing “We’re getting a puppy tomorrow!” In fact, she comes out chatting about her day, and when we get in the car, I say “Darling, I’ve got some bad news about the puppy.” “We’re not getting her are we”, she says, matter-of-factly. “No, I’m afraid the owners have changed their minds.” She then takes me completely by surprise by her mature thoughts, “Are they allowed to do that? They said we could have her, they made an agreement, and now they’re going back on that agreement. What about the allergy? He can take tablets, but it won’t stop him being allergic, he’ll always be allergic. And how come he didn’t think about getting tablets in the first place?” Even though she is evidently angry and frustrated, I am proud how she is thinking this through and asking the very same questions I was asking. “And I’ve told all my friends I’m getting a puppy tomorrow”. She is quiet for the rest of the car journey home. I try to chat about other things, and when we get home, she makes no more mention of it.

For the next couple of evenings, Steve and I chat about what has happened. “We’re not meant to get a dog”, I say, but he says he doesn’t believe in fate, and is determined to keep looking. I tell him of my change of heart in wanting a dog, but he tries to convince me that I’ll change my mind when we do actually get one. He decides to keep looking on his own, and even though the rescue centre say they’ll try their hardest to get us a puppy again, we know that that is unlikely. Steve decides to look into local Labrador breeders, with the hope of acquiring a puppy that way.

About a week or so later, he announces to me one evening that he is going to view a puppy that weekend, and if he likes it, he’ll be bringing it home with him. I’m not sure how I feel. A little bit nervous, a little bit excited, a little bit not really caring. I tell him not to mention a word to Megan – the first I want her to know about it is when it’s actually in the house.

The day arrives. I take Megan out and Steve goes puppy shopping. About 2 hours later, I get a call. “Package picked up, delivery eta 1 hour”. “OK”, is all I can say, partly because Megan is in the room, but partly because I can think of nothing else to say. Steve is definitely more excited than I am. At the allotted time, I’m in Megan’s bedroom helping her with her homework, when out the corner of my eye I see the back gate open and 2 figures, one big, the other tiny, enter the garden. “Megan, look out the window.” “Why?” she asks suspiciously. “Just look out the window!” “What for?” Why is this so hard, I ask myself. “Just look!” and I almost drag her up out the chair to the window. She looks out, gasps, and races down the stairs. She throws open the back door and runs outside. She doesn’t utter a word. There is just a big smile on her face. “Say hello to Brody”, says Steve.

 

And so begins my diary of keeping a puppy.