The Puppy That Came for Christmas

by Megan Rix

  “I thought Paul would be really freaked out by his first sight of the sea, but he wasn’t—just kept staring at it. He didn’t like the ice-cream van, though,” she said, laughing at the memory. “Also, having Annie with us with her assistance dog coat on means when Paul has a tantrum, when it all gets too much for him, people realize he isn’t just being a naughty boy with a mum that’s spoilt him! We were very lucky: Helper Dogs don’t often train dogs to work with children like Paul—although there are some charities that specialize in it.”

  Though my weekend with Emma and Ian was all too short, the break did us a world of good. Ian had had a few days away from the London commute, Emma had seen the sea for the first time and I’d barely thought about Clomid once. I came home refreshed and remembered that the £10,000 had cleared into my savings account.

  The following week, I spent hours on the computer browsing the many Internet forums in which women described their experiences of trying to have children. I especially liked looking at the ones for older women who’d successfully become pregnant. Then I researched the private clinics within driving distance from us: some didn’t offer IVF for women over forty; some only offered donor eggs. But there were two that looked right.

  I explored all the possibilities the money gave us in my mind and began to come to some decisions. I e-mailed both clinics and asked to be sent more details.

  8

  Emma’s head was deep inside the washing machine, and I loved it. I’d been cultivating this behavior, egging her on with praise and treats for days. First I’d used a favorite toy, placing it right on the edge of the machine, and showered her with love when she brought it back to me. Gradually I’d put it farther and farther inside, until she had her head completely within the dark echoey drum; her tail, which was sticking right out into the kitchen, was swishing merrily from side to side like a metronome, marking how happy she was.

  It was one of the many skills that all Helper Dogs had to learn. For an able-bodied person, taking the washing out of the machine is simply a tiresome chore, but in a wheelchair or with limited mobility, it can be a struggle. Now, after only a couple of weeks’ practice, Emma was cheerfully—and surprisingly delicately—pulling socks, pants and bras out with her mouth and dropping them into the washing basket, ready to be taken outside to be hung up to dry. It was a game to her, one she loved to play.

  Learning how to take the pegs from the basket and give them to me, however, was all her own work. After the washing-machine drill, she followed me out into the garden and, in an excess of play-fever, simply copied what I was doing. Soon, I’d say, “Peg, Emma,” and she’d bring me a peg over; and when I was unpegging the washing, she could take the pegs gently from my hand and drop them back into the basket too. For her, it was a fun, exciting game, well rewarded with treats and love. Someday, the washing-machine game and the peg game would make somebody’s life a whole lot easier. She was really picking up new skills quickly now; most of all, she was enjoying it.

  Other things we concentrated on were taking off a person’s shoes and socks, picking up a dropped walking stick and finding the phone—what’s a few tooth marks on a phone if it means your dog can bring it to you when you’ve had a nasty fall and need help? She was also very good at finding a set of door keys to which I’d attached a cuddly toy keyring. “Find the keys,” I’d say, and off she’d go, hunting around the room. Sometimes, I’d hide them in a shoe or under a cushion so she really had to look for them. Sometimes I even buried them inside a pile of her toys. She never gave up until she found them and she always had a treat and tons of happy praise when she brought them over. I was certain that a huge smile spread over her doggy face every time.

  Quite aside from the specialized Helper Dogs work, Emma was coming on in leaps and bounds in her obedience training. All Helper Dogs had to complete Kennel Club training, too, as it was equally as important to their prospective partners that they could do simple things such as stay and sit on command as it was that they’d perform the more complicated tasks. Jamie had decided that it was time for Emma and Eddie to go for their first Kennel Club exam. Elvis hadn’t yet quite grasped what was required of him and was going to wait until later when his behavior was less erratic.

  Ted, a man in his thirties with cerebral palsy, told me how his working day had changed after his Helper Dog, Callum, came to live with him. At first Ted had thought that Callum’s most important skill was being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible; however, he soon found out that there were much bigger benefits than that.

  “At work I never used to speak to anyone if I could help it and no one ever spoke to me. Some days I’d go through a whole day sitting at my computer without saying anything. Around me other people in the office would be chatting, but not me. I was the invisible man—there but not there. When I got Callum and took him to work, it was like people saw Ted the person for the first time. Everyone wanted to say hello to Callum and ask questions about him. Soon it took me ten minutes to get to my desk because everyone wanted to stop and say hello.

  “Callum is really good and sits under my desk. He’s not in the way at the office at all. Now, when it’s lunch hour, a group of us from the office take Callum to the park so he can have a run around and sometimes we even go to the pub after work. I just have orange juice—don’t want to be drunk in charge of a wheelchair!”

  Knowing how important it was for Emma to be obedient didn’t make me any more relaxed, and on the day of the exam, I struggled to control my nerves. I didn’t want to affect her performance. Eight or ten other dogs—Helper Dogs and dogs from the normal obedience classes—lined up across the lawn, and one by one they were put through their paces. Emma walked smartly with her lead, not pulling or lagging behind, and returned straightaway when she was called. There remained one final test: she had to lie still in one place for a minute while I walked away. As I patted and praised her, she settled into the down position well. I commanded her to stay. She lay still, perfectly obedient, until the time was up, but as I came back to her, she sat up—and, by so doing, failed the test. It was such a shame that she’d fallen at the final hurdle, but she wasn’t to know that she’d done anything wrong, so I gave her a piece of cheese as a reward anyway. She’d have a chance to retake it in a month’s time. Eddie passed without a problem.

  Not all dogs are as well behaved, as we found out soon after on a walk on the riverbank. Emma was now four months old, and although she was growing fast, people recognized her all the time as the puppy in the newspaper column. She took to celebrity well and always welcomed being stroked. I was happy to let people fuss her: it filled me with pride and it was also important that Helper Dogs become used to dealing with the public in all kinds of situations. Passersby and dog walkers always made kind remarks—“It’s the best bit in the paper. I always turn to your column first,” or “That time she chewed up the toilet rolls . . . But it looks like butter wouldn’t melt!”

  It made me so happy that people could see how special and lovable she was.

  Emma usually got on as swimmingly with dogs as she did with people, but as I was to learn, there are always exceptions. In the weak March sunshine that morning, we met an elderly man and his wife walking a large greyhound. He was a rescue dog, thin and jumpy, and he’d only been with them for a few weeks. While his wife held on to the greyhound, the man stiffly bent down and made a big fuss of Emma. The greyhound looked unhappy enough at this, but when his owner reached into his pocket and gave Emma a biscuit, the larger dog rushed over and bit her. Emma squeaked in shock and pain while the woman pulled the vexed greyhound away.

  “She’s OK, she’s OK,” the man said. “It didn’t break the skin.”

  “He was probably just jealous,” explained his wife. I could see how a celebrity puppy grabbing all of his owners’ attention could make a rescue dog insecure and want to bite, but it didn’t really make things any better. It was the first time I’d had to deal with this kind of situation, and I, too, was in shock. Still,
I reasoned, Emma didn’t seem to be hurt, so I bade them a frosty goodbye and carried on with our walk.

  Emma slept as usual when we got back but woke up crying and limping. In a panic, I phoned Jamie, but there was no answer. The organization paid the bills, so we were meant to check with the Helper Dogs bosses before we went to the vet’s. But my puppy was hurt, and I wasn’t in any mood to hang about. I took her anyway. By the time we got there, she had staged a marvelous recovery and wasn’t crying or limping. She licked the vet’s face as he tried to examine her. The vet, the receptionist and the whole waiting room were smitten.

  “I don’t think there’s much wrong with this little girl,” he said, laughing. “She might have woken up and remembered what had happened. It probably gave her a scare more than anything.”

  As any mother would be, I was still worried.

  “I’ll give her an analgesic if it’ll make you feel happier.”

  It certainly did. I also got him to check her heart and was over the moon when he said Emma’s heart murmur had disappeared of its own accord.

  If only medical problems in my life were so easily resolved. All the tests and (seemingly) inevitable disappointments were getting me down almost as much as being childless. In despair, I confided in Lorrie, a new Helper Dogs volunteer, who was a retired midwife. Lorrie had worked with my specialist, Mrs. Hughes, in the past, and although Lorrie said she had the greatest professional respect for her, she frowned upon hearing that my next appointment was in six months’ time. She quickly became as determined as I was that I get pregnant as soon as possible.

  “Goodness gracious, woman, you can’t wait that long! Write the lady a letter,” she said. “If you send a letter, then she’ll be obliged to answer you in writing.”

  I took her advice and wrote, reminding Mrs. Hughes of my test results (poor), my age (advancing) and her decision (Clomid for a year).

  I’m writing to you because I am now really desperate to have a baby and am thinking about trying IVF. I believe I would need to do this privately because of my age and was wondering what your advice would be. The private IVF clinic in Billingsford seems to have a good reputation and would currently be my first choice. But I am not sure if IVF should be my next step.

  I licked and stamped the envelope, and put it in the post feeling a little as if I’d stoppered up all my hopes and fears and tossed them out to sea in a bottle, with little prospect of ever hearing back. Nevertheless, even having put everything down in writing seemed to have lightened the load a little, and I was delighted when a few weeks later I received a reply from Mrs. Hughes speaking positively of the Billingsford clinic. She also took the step of contacting them for me, as well as writing a letter to my local practice, explaining my situation.

  My regular doctor had left and I was given a new GP, a registrar called Amy Boston. Her sympathetic manner put me at ease right away when we met, and I opened my heart to her. Dr. Boston reiterated that the NHS did not pay for IVF for women of my age, simply because the results were usually very poor. However, if I decided to go ahead, she would recommend the Billingsford clinic and would forward all my clinical notes to them. Before leaving, I asked her if I could have two blood tests: for FSH (a hormone that encourages eggs to grow) and for LH (one of the most important hormones involved in pregnancy). My last FSH test had been in February, when I’d had a reading of 11.6. This was the same as the previous November, and the range of normal readings went up to 12—so I’d just squeaked inside. Dr. Boston wasn’t too worried about this. She printed out a form for me to take to the hospital for my blood test.

  After giving Emma her lunch and settling her down, I left for the hospital, feeling much more positive than I had in months. I found a good spot in the hospital car park and went up to the all-too-familiar, all-too-crowded waiting room. The ticket machine spewed out a number—99. It was going to be a long wait.

  I sighed and stared down at my tummy. Ian and I had put on a lot of weight since getting together. In fact, I thought, I looked so fat that people must think I’m pregnant already. The flab seemed to gather high up, under my bust, although it was likely that it was evenly spread and just bulged upward when I sat down. Looking at it, I really wished I were pregnant. I wanted it so badly. When 99 finally flashed up, I picked up my handbag and went in to greet the nurses who ran the clinic. It seemed to take ages for enough blood to fill the test tube to come out, and it hadn’t got any less painful than last time, but, at last, it was over, and the nurse who’d taken the blood told me to expect the results at my GP’s by the following Thursday.

  The results, when they came through, were not good.

  “There, there, it’s all right, don’t cry,” Dr. Boston said as she handed me tissues number three, four, five and six.

  But I couldn’t help it.

  “It’s just I was . . . I was . . . so hoping,” I sobbed. “It’s not like . . . I’m very happy, I have a lovely husband, a cute puppy, you should see her. Only I’d have liked . . .”

  Dr Boston nodded and took my hand. “Maybe you should contact that IVF clinic sooner rather than later,” she said.

  9

  My relationship with Queenie, Jamie’s pet German Shepherd, consisted of me avoiding her and her ignoring me and, so far, this had worked out well for both of us. Queenie was the alpha dog of the group: huge, and with her long glossy coat, every inch the queen of the Helper Dogs center. She gruffly tolerated the tiny puppies and could bring herself every now and then to approve of some of the male dogs, but she hated the females. If she thought they needed reminding of this, or bringing into line for any number of things, she told them so in no uncertain terms.

  Queenie would usually be tied up to the wall by the time we arrived, and all the Helper Dogs trainees would join her, tethered to posts around the hall with a chew or a toy to distract them while the puppy parents drew chairs into a circle and discussed progress in the center of the room. Learning how to wait patiently was an important part of the training, as, in their professional roles, the dogs would often be called upon to sit quietly for hours, perhaps under the desk at their partner’s office. The more obedient they were, the more likely they’d be tolerated and even welcomed in all the public situations where their help was really needed. Keeping the puppies tied up in the room also helped with their advanced training: at Helper Dogs HQ, they’d have to sit and wait their turn before being put through their paces individually by their trainer, and it appreciably shortened their training time if they watched the other dogs performing the tasks expected of them first.

  But of course, as a learning experience, it was very hard for the bouncy small puppies. They didn’t know the reason they were being tethered to the wall, and they often let their puppy parent and everyone else know they didn’t think much of this treatment by whining or barking loudly. To remedy the bad behavior it was usually sufficient to praise them when they were quiet and to ignore their outbursts—standard Helper Dogs procedure—but sometimes something more was required, and Jamie would take the dreaded bark collar out of the cupboard when he could stand the noise no longer. This was something he’d borrowed from the obedience classes, and it didn’t hurt the dogs; however, whenever the dog barked, a small box on the collar let off a citrus smell, an odor that was a hundred times more pungent to their sensitive noses than to ours. Dogs didn’t like it, and I hated it.

  Once, when Emma was young and Jo wasn’t around to look after her during my hospital visit, I dropped her off at the center instead. Yvonne, a new puppy parent, took the leash from me when I got there and led her into an obedience class. Jamie promised to look after her for the rest of the morning’s classes if I was delayed. All morning, as my waiting time stretched out ahead of me, and each appointment got moved back, I didn’t fret because I knew she was in good hands. I just took a deep breath and thought about my Emma to take my mind off the unpleasant tests I was waiting to undergo.

  When I returned to the training center, I was horrified to see her
lying cramped in a crate built for the very youngest of puppies, looking very sorry for herself and wearing the bark collar.

  “I’m sorry,” apologized Jamie. “She just wouldn’t be quiet and she was disrupting all the other classes. I had to do it.”

  I felt physically sick as I took the seemingly huge collar off her little neck.

  “I’m so sorry,” I whispered into her fur. I’d never have left her if I’d thought for one second it wasn’t going to be a pleasurable experience for her.

  From then on even the sight of the bark collar made her unhappy. Some puppies, on the other hand, never experienced the bark collar. They were either too clever, too obedient or simply too dopey. It was completely alien to Elvis, who didn’t mind sitting on his blanket and being tethered, and never barked to show his displeasure once during the whole time I knew him. He’d just chew his chew and then lie down and fall fast asleep.

  Another lesson Emma had to learn the hard way was to respect her elders and betters. For some reason she didn’t register that Queenie’s growls and snarls meant it was a good idea to keep away from her. Uncharacteristically, we’d arrived early at the class one day, and I was chatting away to Jamie while we waited for the other dogs to arrive. Emma was now five months old and was well behaved enough to wander around without a lead on—or so I thought. From behind my back I suddenly heard a large, gruff bark, and a menacing rumble from the back of Queenie’s throat. My head snapped round and I saw Emma right in front of Queenie, much too close for my liking and definitely too close for Queenie’s. She was telling the pup as clearly as possible to clear out of her personal space, but Emma wasn’t listening. Another growl came, more forcefully, but Emma just rolled on her back to show her tummy, as if to say: “I’m just a little puppy girl, please don’t hurt me”—but not, as Jamie explained to me later, in the proper submissive way she should have been. Queenie was getting really cross. She was just about to lunge when Jamie and I interposed, grabbing Emma and pushing Queenie back. In my arms, Emma wagged her tail and licked my face, oblivious to the danger she’d been in, whereas my heart was pounding and I was trembling.