by Megan Rix
I dissolved into sobs, for Emma, for Gemma, for Ian and for me.
“We could try to buy her off them,” said Ian, “if you’re really definitely sure you want to.”
“Of course I want to. Don’t you want to keep her too?”
“I do. She’s our little girl.”
Then I remembered why we had her. “W-what about the disabled person who needs her? What about them?”
“We could give them enough money so they could buy two puppies or even three or four.”
“They couldn’t refuse, could they?”
“Charities always need money.”
“They couldn’t refuse ten thousand pounds.”
“Ten thousand pounds?” Ian said.
“Yes, the money Mum and Dad gave us that we were going to use for the IVF—we’ll use that.”
Ian looked concerned. “Are you sure? That money . . .”
“Yes, yes, yes, I’m sure. How many new puppies will ten thousand pounds buy?”
“Each puppy is roughly five hundred pounds, so maybe twenty.”
Twenty new puppies in exchange for one Emma. That seemed a good deal to me. She was worth more than twenty puppies to me, but she couldn’t be worth more than that to them.
“I don’t see how they could resist,” Ian said. “But I don’t want you to regret—”
“I won’t regret it!” I shouted. “How could I when it means we’ll get to keep Emma?”
Emma had by now fallen asleep on the sofa.
“And Helper Dogs will be OK,” I said. “They’ll have twenty new puppies. And Emma hasn’t even gone for her advanced training yet. She might not even be suitable as a Helper Dog. Even if we gave her up she might not make it.”
We both knew that that was a lie. Emma would make a great Helper Dog for someone, but I couldn’t, I just couldn’t, bear the thought of letting her go.
“The IVF clinic . . .” Ian started to say. But I didn’t want to talk about that.
“Shall we phone Jamie?”
“I think it’d be better if we put our request in writing,” Ian said. “Then they have to take it seriously. Put it before the board.”
We drafted the letter that night. If we were allowed to keep Emma, it’d probably mean I couldn’t continue to be a part of Helper Dogs anymore. Unless perhaps they’d want her to be a demonstration dog. Emma would be a great demonstration dog; she loved children and was so friendly. Maybe, I hoped, a combination of the money and offering her services as a demonstration dog would be enough for them to let us keep her.
I told Jamie what we were planning to do.
“I think you should take a trip down to the Helper Dogs Head Office,” he said, his voice heavy and serious. “Take the letter to them in person.”
So we did. Emma was very good on the long journey in the back of the car. Traffic was horrendous and it took more than four hours to get there, deep into Hertfordshire where somebody had left the charity a beautiful Tudor mansion and its grounds in their will. The main house held the charity’s offices, and its great hall was used for doggy graduation ceremonies. Then there were stables and other more modern buildings dotted across the acres: accommodation for disabled people who came to meet potential partner dogs and attend courses, the dog kennels, and the dog training and exercise areas. It was very impressive and looked like it would be a lovely place to work.
I bristled when I saw Diane, the puppy parent from Peterborough. I’d hoped I’d never have to see her again.
Emma, however, was delighted to see her.
“Has she tried this?” Diane asked, pulling a tube of Primula cheese and ham from her waist bag. “It’s a very good way of teaching dogs the correct position they should be in when they’re walking at your side.”
She opened the tube and squirted a little bit out so Emma could have a taste. Emma thought it was very fine indeed and wanted some more. Diane held the cheese down at her side and Emma trotted along beside her in the perfect position.
“You should always have the lead relaxed in your hand because the dogs can pick up if you’re tense,” she said.
I was actually feeling very tense. Ian had gone upstairs to the offices to find Henry, who was in charge, to give him the letter.
Diane was stroking Emma’s lead. “Just smoothing out the lead like this can calm a distressed dog down,” she said.
Emma rolled over onto her tummy. “And here,” Diane said, “where her hips join her tummy—that crease, that can be very soothing too.” I looked down at Emma. She certainly seemed to be enjoying it.
“Thank you,” I said.
Henry came back down with Ian and took us on a tour of the site. We visited the kennels where most of the dogs stayed while completing advanced training, and Ian and I exchanged a smile, perhaps the first time I had smiled all weekend. We were pleased to see that each kennel, which was the size of a small room and held one or two dogs, also had a little sofa for the dogs to sit on. We’d got into trouble when Emma was little for letting her sit on the sofa (it wasn’t recommended, for fear that she’d get ideas above her station), but now we felt that if Helper Dogs provided their dogs with sofas then we were only helping with her training. We then went through into the “shop,” where the dogs were taught how to take food—boxes of cornflakes, tins of baked beans, packets of rice or pasta—off the shelves when asked. People in wheelchairs can have difficulty taking items from the lower and higher shelves in supermarkets, and often the dogs become so good at their job that they automatically drop their owner’s favorite food into their baskets. I smiled again as I imagined Emma sneakily putting her favorite treats into the basket while her partner wasn’t looking. Then I caught myself. If we were successful, she wouldn’t be going anywhere.
Finally Henry opened the door to a small meeting room with ten or so people and two dogs in it.
“They couldn’t make the main graduation ceremony so we’ve organized a small one just for them,” he explained.
At the front of the room a man on crutches with his black Helper Dog Labrador sitting beside him was speaking eloquently about all his dog, Zorba, had done for him.
“I’d never been much of a doggy person before I got Zorba. Too hairy and dribbly and much too inclined to lick their bottoms for my liking,” he said, and everyone laughed. “Huh! Little did I know. Since I became disabled Zorba has become everything to me. He goes with me to work every morning. Hands over my wallet to pay for my lunch in the cafeteria—they usually have something tasty for him too—goes out with me in the evenings and falls asleep with me at night, on my bed no less. His hairy, slobbery face is the first thing I see each morning and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
“Seriously, though,” he continued, “the truth is I probably wouldn’t be around still if it wasn’t for him. I used to suffer from depression before I became disabled and I suffered from it a lot more afterward. ‘Why me?’ I used to ask. ‘What did this have to happen to me for?’”
He shook his head as he remembered. “I had some very dark times, times when I didn’t see the point of going on. When the pills by my bed seemed like the only alternative.
“It was my psychiatrist who suggested I got a dog. I thought it was a crazy idea and told him he needed counseling himself, but he was right. Having Zorba took me out of myself. I couldn’t mope around when Zorba needed taking out, and once we were out, people were always wanting to come over and talk to us. Zorba made it impossible for me to keep being miserable all the time.
“I went back to work—I’m a lecturer in screenwriting. Zorba comes to work with me every day and keeps me and the students in line. Although I do find my students are writing an awful lot of scripts about dogs these days—especially ones about black Labradors!”
At the end of his speech, everyone clapped.
Then Steph wheeled herself to the front, her Golden Retriever, Bridie, close beside her. As soon as she started to speak it was easy to tell that she was very nervous. She read from a piece o
f paper, and both it and her voice shook as she spoke.
“I don’t know what to say, I’m not used to speaking in front of people, nothing is enough to tell you how grateful I am.” She looked at her Helper Dog and a tear ran down her face. Then, unable to speak, she handed the piece of paper to the master of ceremonies to read out:
“As soon as I met Bridie, I fell in love with her and wanted her to be my Helper Dog. All the way through training, I was sure that somebody was going to say she wasn’t suitable, as I’d never had a dog before, but Bridie did everything perfectly even when I got some of the commands wrong. The first day she came to live with me I was so happy I felt like I’d won the lottery. But I was wrong about that—having Bridie is much better than winning the lottery.”
Steph smiled through her tears. Bridie put her paws on her lap to comfort her.
I looked at Ian. I wanted to cry too. Several people in the room were. Yet still I didn’t want to let Emma go.
We thanked Henry, whom I felt had been very gracious with us given that we were coming in and disrupting all his plans. I was on tenterhooks. I hadn’t dared ask Ian while we were still in the faded, grand old house what had gone on upstairs. As we walked back to the car with Emma, who was panting happily, I gave him a meaningful look.
“They’ll let us know after they’ve had a meeting to discuss it,” he said.
11
Ian was at work when the envelope with the Helper Dogs logo on it finally arrived.
I phoned to tell him it was there.
“Open it,” he said.
But I couldn’t. I was too scared. Too much rested on this letter. I took Emma for a long walk by the river but got nothing else done all day as I waited for Ian to come home.
At last he arrived, and I removed myself to the lounge to let him open it in the kitchen. It seemed to be taking him an awfully long time.
“Have you opened it yet?” I called out anxiously.
“They’ve said no.”
I sank down on the sofa, feeling sick. Emma jumped up next to me and I stroked her soft fur.
“Our mission statement is that each one of our dogs should reach its highest potential and so far Emma has given every indication that she will make an excellent Helper Dog one day . . .” said Ian, but I couldn’t concentrate on what he was saying. All I kept thinking, over and over again, was that they’d said no. It was too awful to even cry about.
“She will make a good Helper Dog,” Ian said.
Even if I’d wanted to agree—and I knew he was right—I couldn’t speak to reply.
Ian made our dinner and I gave Emma hers. I felt numb, hardly even managing to smile when Emma did her latest trick of picking up her bowl and bringing it over to me to put a treat in at the end of her meal.
“They’ll be nice to her, won’t they, whoever she’s partnered with?” I asked Ian. “They’ll love her too. They’ll love her like we do, and be gentle and kind.”
“No one could love her like we do,” Ian whispered.
We decided to take Emma to all of her favorite places for one last visit before she left us. First, that weekend, was the County Park where she’d first swam and so many times enjoyed playing with Eddie and Elvis and all her other friends. There was a long strip of sand there on which, ever since we’d been to the seaside, she’d taken to racing, up and down, up and down, up and down, with delight, bottom tucked under, a crazy run of happy abandonment. This time, though, I couldn’t bear to watch.
The next day, I took her to the local park to meet up with Sadie and her pet dog, Misha. Sadie was still trying to get over giving up her Helper Dog puppy a few months before. Her dog, Cherry, had always been borderline, and she’d been hoping that she’d be returned to her. Cherry had injured her hips when she was a young puppy and had not been allowed to run free for almost six months and had undergone hydrotherapy. She’d recovered enough that it had been decided to take her in for advanced training. The news so far was that although they were doing everything they could, she might not be a Helper Dog. None of her brothers and sisters had made the grade, but they weren’t giving up on Cherry yet.
“I know she’d be happier with me,” Sadie said.
I nodded my agreement. Maybe all puppy parents felt like this, maybe they all just fell helplessly in love. To get the best from the puppies you have to put everything into it—affection, time, blood, sweat and tears. It has to be that way for them to flourish and grow up to be the best Helper Dog possible: they must trust you completely and want to do anything for you. But the inevitable consequence is a broken heart when it’s time to say goodbye.
I didn’t want to let Emma go, but I’d reluctantly come around to accepting that I was going to have to. In the meantime we kept going on our favorite walks and playing our favorite games, and every now and again I’d have a cry at the hopelessness of it all. I tried not to: in those last few weeks I wanted to give her a lifetime’s worth of love and happiness, and the best memories of country parks and interesting smells and doggy friends to play with—just in case there wasn’t much of that in store for her in her future life.
All the while, I’d been going through my fertility routines in a sort of daze. Vitamins all the time, a healthy diet and constant efforts to resist that second glass of wine. Every day, as soon as I woke, before standing up even, I’d get the thermometer out and take my temperature. Clomid on days three to seven of my cycle; then, on days twelve to sixteen of my cycle, ovulation sticks to test if and when I was ovulating. As soon as the test turned pink, Ian needed to be ready for action. Poor man.
I was following the prescriptions dutifully, unthinkingly, since our difficulties with conception had taken a back seat to the present crisis with our puppy girl; in fact, I reflected, when it came to the crucial moment, I’d offered without a moment’s hesitation to give up our IVF money for the chance to keep Emma.
I awoke from my daze one morning to a startling fact. There was no hiding it: I was two weeks late. Even by my erratic cycles this was too much to ignore, but it was impossible, I said to myself. I couldn’t be. I didn’t dare hope that in the midst of this dark period I might finally be pregnant. I bought a pregnancy test, but the line didn’t turn red. Maybe it was faulty. I bought another one, and then another.
The pregnancy tests weren’t showing that I was pregnant, but on the Internet forums there were lots of women who’d had negative pregnancy tests yet had been pregnant anyway. I also remembered what Carmel had said about the line on her test being so faint that she could barely see it. The doctors had thought she was mad, but she’d been pregnant. Another day passed and no change, and I began to convince myself I really might be. I so wanted to be. I even told a couple of old friends that I met up with at a convention that I thought I was, just to see how it felt for the words to roll off my tongue, pass my lips and take flight into the world.
“Still very early days yet,” I said, as I accepted their congratulations. I was sure there was a little person growing inside me. The little person we’d been waiting so long for.
“You’ll make a lovely mum,” one of them said.
On Monday I decided I’d go to the doctor. The pregnancy tests were still showing negative, but maybe they just weren’t sensitive enough; doctors, the forums also said, had more sensitive tests at their disposal, and it would let me know for certain, be sure about the life that was growing inside me. I phoned for an appointment but my regular doctor wasn’t there. Did I mind seeing another doctor instead? I could see the other doctor today, within the next hour in fact, whereas I couldn’t see my own doctor until the end of the week. I put my jacket on, gave Emma a chew to keep her occupied and got in the car.
When I got to the surgery, I was informed by the receptionist that the new doctor was videoing all his patients as part of his final training. I said I didn’t mind being filmed, took a seat and flicked through a tatty magazine in a bid to block out of my range of vision the posters on the wall giving dietary advice to expecta
nt mums. Then I got to thinking that actually I did mind, and went back to the receptionist and told her that I’d rather not be videoed.
“That’s OK,” she said. “It’s just for him to see his bedside manner, that sort of thing. It’s perfectly within your rights. I’ll ask him not to.”
I went into the treatment room. The video camera was placed facing the doctor and the patient’s chair next to him.
“I don’t want to be videoed,” I said.
“It’s not on,” he said, a young man with short light hair and a small mustache, smartly dressed in dark trousers and a stripy shirt.
There was an orange light flashing on the camera, but I presumed that meant it was on standby. I looked at him.
“Why’s the light flashing?”
He turned the camera so it was facing away from us.
“Now what can I do for you?”
He was a little difficult to understand. When he’d come into the waiting room and loudly announced the patient’s name before mine, he’d had to say it three times before a man sitting in the opposite corner finally realized it was him being called. I told him that I thought I might be pregnant because I was late. I also told him that I’d taken more than one pregnancy test and they had all come back negative. He must have my notes, I said, so I hoped I didn’t have to go into the saga of my hospital visits and my medical history too closely. Was it possible for him to do a more sensitive, accurate test, I asked, then fell silent and looked at him hopefully through watering eyes.
He looked through the notes, shuffled through them, and then read them a second time before speaking. I strained to make sense of his words.
“It is highly, highly unlikely that you are pregnant,” he said. “In fact, given your age and prognosis so far, it is doubtful, almost impossible, in fact, that you will ever be pregnant.”