by Megan Rix
In the class after the Queenie incident we practiced for a Helper Dogs demonstration day, which had been organized for the following week to show the dogs off to the people who lived near the center. Each dog was demonstrating a different Helper Dog skill that they could perform for their owners. One dog was to pick up and bring the post, another to find and bring slippers; Emma’s task was to locate and bring back a mobile phone; Eddie was going to remove a hat and scarf from someone sitting in a wheelchair, and poor old Elvis was supposed to be carefully pulling off his puppy parent’s shoes and socks.
Some trainers from the head office came to watch us practice. They seemed pleased with the way the dogs’ training was progressing. They watched carefully, taking notes for the duration, and gave a little talk at the end in which they said how impressed they were by the standards at the new center. Then, the Helper Dogs head trainer reeled off a list of dogs who were almost ready to move on. I listened in horror as Emma’s name came up, right near the top of the list. The sound of it hung heavy in the still air of the room, and I couldn’t quite believe it had actually been said. Emma and Eddie had progressed so fast and so well that they were a credit to the Guide Dog Association that had provided them.
It felt as if someone, somewhere, had made a mistake and three and a half months of my life, the happiest I’d ever had, were about to be taken away from me.
“What about Elvis?” asked Jo. Elvis, though from a different litter, was in the same intake and was therefore about the same age as Eddie and Emma. He was asleep in a pile in the corner of the room, snoring and blissfully unaware that he was being spoken about.
“Needs a bit more time” was the reply.
I wished that Emma needed more time. I wished that she needed lots and lots of time. Forever would be perfect.
Elvis, in fact, never did end up being a Helper Dog. Around forty percent of the dogs that begin their training don’t complete it, for a variety of reasons. With some, like a dog I’d met called Sophie, it becomes clear early on that they’re not naturally suited to being a successful Helper Dog. Sophie was a very assertive pup who, while very good at home with her puppy parent in a one-to-one situation, found it very hard to concentrate in the much noisier and exciting environment of the puppy classroom. She barked continuously when tethered and would bite through her lead and be off racing around the room if ignored for any length of time. Helper Dogs made every attempt to turn this around, but it wasn’t to be, and her parent was allowed to keep her forever as a pet.
Others were too attached to their puppy parent to be successfully placed. Dylan, Emma’s playmate whose wobbly long legs and dark coat made him look like Bambi, fell totally and hopelessly in love with his puppy parent, Julia. He’d gaze longingly at her and follow her everywhere around the house and once, when he was still a small puppy, he’d placed himself between her and a noisy abusive drunk when they’d been out for a late evening walk. He was devoted and would have laid down and died for her if she’d asked him. So devoted that Jamie became concerned; a Helper Dog must be able to work with a variety of people, and Dylan only had eyes for Julia. He’d get anxious if he couldn’t keep her in sight, and begin whining and crying if she was away too long.
Jamie organized afternoons and classes where Dylan would be alone, in an attempt to lessen the bond, but Dylan couldn’t do it, and classes became impossible for him. Then Jamie placed him temporarily with another puppy parent, but all Dylan wanted to do was be with Julia. It was very hard for Julia too. She already suffered from depression and had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and was increasingly relying on Dylan for companionship and support. I felt that Dylan sensed all of this and was upping the love he was giving in response.
It was a difficult time for them both and it put Helper Dogs in a tricky position. On the one hand, I could see that Jamie and Frank both liked Julia and felt for her, and wanted to do all they could to help—in the same way that they were sensitive to my hospital visits and did their best to help me with Emma when I needed it. Yet, on the other hand, Dylan was an expensive asset for them, a good-natured, intelligent puppy that had so much potential to enrich a disabled person’s life, and their first duty was to the charity and the people waiting for dogs. I could see that every time the pair came to the center the situation was only going to get more complicated. I raised the subject with Jamie, but he just gave me an agonized look and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Your guess is as good as mine.” Eventually, it was decided to send Dylan off to an experienced trainer with six dogs of her own who lived far out in the countryside.
I didn’t see Dylan leave and could only imagine how utterly heartbreaking it must have been for Julia. For Dylan it went from bad to worse. All of a sudden he was one of seven dogs, and so was receiving much less attention than Julia had lavished upon him and less forbearance than Jamie and Frank had shown. So Dylan went on strike. He refused to take any part in the advanced training classes and stopped eating properly. He was given time off class to adjust, only he didn’t. He ran away more than once and then cut his leg badly trying to jump out of an upstairs window. That was the final straw, and the powers that be convened a meeting. Julia, who was by that point in remission, asked if she could take him back as her pet. Helper Dogs agreed and asked her to train him as a demonstration dog.
Demonstration dogs are a crucial asset to the charity, the public face that spreads the word about the charity’s good work. A fully trained Helper Dog may occasionally give a demonstration with its disabled partner, but the bulk of the publicity work is done by demonstration dogs who live with able-bodied people, who take them to fêtes, schools, clubs and old-people’s homes—anywhere they’re invited to—to raise awareness and much-needed cash.
So Dylan got to go home with Julia, where he belonged.
As for Elvis, it was clear to Jo, Jamie and Frank that he was heading for an F in his exams, so Jo agreed that he be placed with a handler who’d won obedience competitions at Crufts for some intensive training. The problem—and Jo must have known it deep down—was that obedience wasn’t the issue. Elvis was perfectly obedient; he simply wasn’t very bright and never really a hundred percent sure what it was he was supposed to be doing.
He was so amiable and hardworking that Helper Dogs thought he might be able to be a hearing dog, and Hearing Dogs for the Deaf did give him a fair try, before regretfully declining him because he was just too big and boisterous. Then Elvis tried out for the police, but wasn’t right for them, either. He was far too friendly for some police jobs but was very tenacious when asked to find things. Maybe he could be a bomb dog? After a short trial the bomb unit sent him back. Elvis was good at seeking out and locating suspicious packages, but he was also far too good at picking them up and bringing them back to his handlers: bomb dogs are supposed to sit by the “bomb,” and are at all costs not meant to touch it, so this was not exemplary bomb dog behavior.
Finally Elvis was placed as a pet with an experienced dog-owning family with a little girl with cerebral palsy, where he soon made himself at home.
Another dog I knew, Angus, was returned by the advanced training center to his puppy parent to become a pet. He didn’t make the grade for two reasons—the first being a flaky skin condition, which might have made life difficult for his potential partner and led to unmanageable vet’s bills. Secondly, he was very much a farm dog. When in town, some days he would bark at children, some days at men with hats or women with brollies—but you could never tell which one it would be. He was also excellent at chasing and bringing back baby birds, rabbits and once even a pheasant. Like a good retriever should, he brought them all back alive in his soft jaws, but such “treasures,” while being OK on country walks, would be awkward or embarrassing with a disabled partner in town. His puppy parent was more than delighted to have him back.
Elvis’s future seemed clear, even at the demonstration day, when he first inadvertently bit his parent’s toes trying to remove her sock and then ran off
with one of her shoes. Emma found the mobile phone quickly and placed it perfectly in my hand. She knew she’d performed well and was obviously feeling very proud of herself.
“What a good girl you are,” I said, crouching down to stroke her. It was too hard to think she might be leaving us soon.
As we exited the circle of onlookers, a lady came up to me.
“Excuse me,” she said, “my little boy’s got cerebral palsy and he sometimes has fits. Would I be able to apply for a Helper Dog to help him?”
I looked around for Jamie, but he was demonstrating the “speak” command with Eddie, who immediately barked when asked. Helper Dogs were normally discouraged from barking, but in certain situations it might be important that they attract attention for their partners.
“Jamie, the boss, is busy,” I said. “Come and see Cass instead.”
I introduced the woman, whose name was Gina, to Cass, who also had cerebral palsy.
“Blue has made the world of difference to me,” she said, indicating her chocolate-brown Lab sitting patiently beside her chair. “It’s not just all the useful things he can do, but he’s really helped me physically. A year ago I could hardly open my left hand, but because I’ve been grooming and petting him it’s become much stronger and more mobile. Look.” Cass showed Gina how she could spread her fingers.
I could see Gina was impressed. “But will they let him have a dog if he has fits?”
“Yes,” Cass and I said at once, and then started laughing.
“That’d be no problem at all,” Cass said. “The dogs can be trained to put someone in the recovery position if need be, pull a blanket from the back of a wheelchair and bark to call for help. Some dogs can even sense when a fit’s imminent.”
Later I saw Gina speaking to Jamie. She gave me a thumbs-up sign as she left.
As the day drew to an end, I went to chat with the representatives from HQ, who had brought news of the next batch of Helper Dogs, a litter of tiny four-week-old puppies, which had been seen and assessed. A few had been selected to become Helper Dog trainees at eight weeks, once they’d been weaned and were old enough to leave their mum.
“These will be the Fs,” the trainers were saying, showing photographs to us all. I couldn’t resist having a look.
“There’s a little boy that’s just right for you, Meg,” Jamie said.
But I didn’t answer him. I didn’t want to think about having another puppy. I only wanted Emma.
Helper Dogs’ policy, where they could, was to take the outgoing puppy and replace it with a new puppy on the same day. Helper Dogs also tried to give the puppy parents a different-sex puppy each time, so there wouldn’t be too many comparisons with the one before. Sometimes puppy parents were asked to take the puppy they’d had to HQ, where they were given a new puppy to take back home with them. Other times, their new charge was dropped off at their house. Either way, I didn’t like it. The whole switcheroo business, in fact, sounded horrendous. I knew we were expected to take a new puppy when Emma left us, but I didn’t want Emma to go, so I blocked out all thoughts about it.
Ian came over with two vanilla ice creams, one as a special treat for Emma. It was gone in a few large licks, and as she hopefully turned her attention toward my cone, I looked into her loving, trusting eyes and my vision clouded with tears.
10
Ever since we’d met, Ian and I had been very much a twosome. It had been just the two of us visiting comedy clubs before we were married, the two of us on Waikiki Beach saying our vows and just the two of us on our weekend walks and our visits to comedy clubs as man and wife, although now our family circle had widened to include Emma. I’d introduced Ian to all my old friends, but because we were so wrapped up in our new married life—and now all head over heels about Emma—somehow my connection to them had weakened and we didn’t seem to have as much in common as we used to. Gradually, new friends took their place, mostly sharing our newfound passion for dogs.
Coming from a previously dog-free zone, it really surprised me how many dog-lovers there were and how much more everyone seemed to know about dogs than me. They were always full of useful advice on how to get your dog to behave or how to clean and groom it, and Florence even gave me my first dog recipe book. When Emma was sick one day, I was advised to give her plenty of water but no solids, and then give her some homemade chicken and rice in the evening. Emma loved it, and whenever she had an upset tummy, the chicken and rice seemed to fix it. Subsequently, I tried making homemade dog treats and they went down a storm, not just with Emma but with just about every other dog we met.
“Got any new dog treats?” Jamie would ask.
I was by far the least experienced dog owner, and quite often made the most basic of mistakes, but I was fast becoming the most experienced canine chef.
“Some of those look so good I’m tempted to try them myself,” Sadie said one day at Helper Dogs. It was the first time Sadie had been back to Helper Dogs since she’d given up Cherry, the black Lab puppy she’d been looking after. Sadie wasn’t going to be a puppy parent again as she’d found it too traumatic giving Cherry up.
Because I was busy with my new life, I hadn’t had time to wonder how my old friends were getting on, when out of the blue I had a phone call.
“Meg, it’s Gemma.”
“Gemma!” I squawked, as you do when taken by surprise by a familiar voice on the end of the phone.
We’d known each other since we were students and had lived in the same halls of residence and then the same shared house. Gemma had had an abortion just before she started university and had found it very hard to come to terms with it. We used to sit up talking all night and we became very close.
“Sometimes I dream I can hear a baby crying and I know it’s my baby,” she’d say. “They say it’s just cells, don’t they? It couldn’t feel anything, but I can still hear it. I wake up thinking it’s in the room with me. But there’s nothing there.”
The abortion had changed Gemma’s thoughts about motherhood.
“I never want to have a baby,” she said. “It’d just remind me of what happened.”
When she was in her early thirties, she’d married and moved to Devon, and we weren’t as in touch as we’d once been.
We exchanged pleasantries and news for a few minutes while I wondered what had occasioned the unexpected call.
“You’re never going to believe it . . .” said Gemma finally.
I had a sinking feeling that I might.
“I’m pregnant.”
Before I could say anything a torrent of glad tidings poured out of her.
“I know, can you believe it, me of all people? The one who said she never ever wanted children. I didn’t even know if I would be able to have them because I’d left it so late. I didn’t tell you before because, you know, they say it’s bad luck before it’s definite. Need to be three months gone at least.”
“So how pregnant are you?” I asked. I was trying to keep my tone light, as if I were asking about the weather. I felt slightly spaced out. In the room and on the phone, but not in the room and not on the phone at the same time.
“Seven months—it could be born at any time! It’s so exciting and a bit scary. Alan is over the moon. Well, you know he always wanted children even though I didn’t.”
Ian spoke into the speakerphone.
“That’s great news, Gemma,” he said.
“Yes, congratulations,” I said.
“Thanks. You’ll have to come and visit when the baby’s born.”
“Yes, yes, of course! It’d be lovely to see you.” My voice was bright and shiny but brittle, and I felt it could snap and break into a thousand pieces at any time. Some part of me, the part that had known and loved Gemma and Alan for years, was so, so pleased for her, but another part of me, the part that was living in the here and now, and was stuck in cycles of Clomid that were seemingly doing more harm than good, was devastated at the news. The first part of me wanted to go and visit them straig
htaway, but the second part didn’t know if I’d be able. I simply wished it could have been as easy for us.
I said goodbye and put the phone down.
Ian hugged me to him and Emma brought Spiky over. I smiled and played tug with her.
“I’ll make the dinner,” Ian said.
I carried on playing with Emma.
The phone rang again. It was Jamie. “They’re thinking of taking Emma and her brother into advanced training in three weeks,” he said. “But there’ll be another puppy ready for you. That is OK, isn’t it?”
There was a long silence as I let the news sink in. Three weeks. No time at all.
I put the phone down once again, feeling like maybe I should throw the handset—if not the source, then definitely the conduit, of so much troubling news in so short a space of time—through the window and into the garden.
Ian was looking at me.
“I don’t know how I’m going to bear letting her go,” I said. “I feel like my heart is being ripped out.”
And how was Emma supposed to understand why she was being sent away?
“She’ll think she’s done something wrong and that we don’t want her any more,” I said as the tears started streaming down my face. “That she wasn’t good enough.” Once I’d started crying I couldn’t stop. Huge sobs at the thought of our little puppy girl not understanding why she couldn’t stay with us, the people who loved her.
“She tries so hard to be good and do everything we ask of her. How is she supposed to know that if we could keep her we would? We’d do anything to keep her but we . . .”