Over the next week I cleaned and tidied my basement flat, which had a small yard, and bought my puppy – I’d decided to call him Jake – a bed, some bowls and everything else I thought he would need. ‘I’m getting a puppy and I’m going to call him Jake,’ I told my friends. I was so excited.
When I finally picked him up, I tucked him into the top of my jacket for the short walk home. It was December and Jake hadn’t had his second lot of shots so I made sure he was nice and toasty. When we arrived, he was soon sniffing everywhere and everything. It was all new to me, and I didn’t have a clue what I was doing, so after Jake settled down, I set about reading the literature Battersea had given me, and thinking over their advice.
I knew they were at the end of the phone, ready to help if I needed them, but I told Jake: ‘We’ll figure this out as we go along, eh?’
I toilet-trained him – he caught on very quickly. He was a smart little boy and everything I had hoped for. As I was able to spend twenty-four hours a day with him, we soon formed a beautifully strong bond. He was so inquisitive and playful, and he had me thinking on my feet. I made up games to play with him, like hiding things and encouraging him to find them, or distracting him when he had a nibble of my boots or something else he wasn’t supposed to get hold of. I was amazed at how intelligent he was, and wilful too. He had all the good qualities of a person, but lacked the complications that I’d grown to dislike: I loved Jake and he loved me back. I kept him company, and he was always as excited to see me as if he hadn’t seen me for a month.
Every morning I was up at six thirty, and Jake bounced around until I was washed and dressed. Then we’d head out. I took Jake for walks around Battersea Park and realized, to my joy, that I was now one of those people with a lovely dog to call my own. It was nerve-racking at first because Jake was only tiny but he wanted to play with every dog he met. I soon got used to it – the other dogs were either friendly or just ignored him.
It took Jake six months to figure out that he wasn’t going to catch a pigeon before it took off and he was never going to be as fast as the squirrel that taunted him every day. But he loved chasing them and I loved watching him.
When my gardening jobs picked up, we’d hop in the van together and Jake would join me in the driver’s seat, curl up on my lap and snooze the journey away. While I worked, he would mill around, finding things to do. He’d sneak the empty plant pots I left to a quiet corner and pile them on top of each other, or he’d stare and yelp at any earthworms I’d dug up.
A one-hour job would take me two because he’d get under my feet and run along a newly prepped bit of soil. But it didn’t matter: having Jake in my life had become all-consuming and I loved every minute of it. For so long, I’d been a perpetual worrier but now I had Jake I was doing things instead of worrying about them. Instead of wondering whether or not something was a good idea, I was busy taking care of the little being who depended on me for love, comfort, food and drink, and constantly demanded my attention.
Jake had given my life purpose. It was real and tangible and I couldn’t quite get over the magical feeling that he was all mine.
On our car journeys he loved sticking his little face out of the window and sometimes a leg too. I’d laugh at him. ‘Come on, Jake, keep your elbows inside.’
He’d give me a look that said: Yeah, what are you going to do about it, Dad?
When Jake was a year old, we revisited the places in Surrey where I’d grown up, the woods I’d spent the summer holidays exploring with my friends, and the parks where I’d played football late into the evening. We stopped beside my favourite parts of the rivers and canals I’d known like the back of my hand. Now I was seeing things in a different light. With Jake, every day was a new adventure, a new experience. He was so excited by everything and loved racing around sniffing this and exploring that. I had to admit, it was rubbing off on me.
All the while, I was beginning to understand that, since my early teens, I’d been suffering with a depression that I could recognize only now, as it was lifting, for what it was. And I knew what was healing me from the inside out: Jake.
Having Jake to take care of was therapeutic. We went for walks and played together every day. We were, in a word, inseparable. Jake came with me when I saw my friends. He was great with people and was always a talking point. If I ever had to go out for a couple of hours without him, I’d leave Radio 4 on for him. I knew he’d be all right for toilet breaks because I’d taught him to use the cat flap to pop in and out.
After a couple of years, my life had taken a certain shape. If Jake wasn’t welcome at somebody’s home, rather than go along with it, as I might have done in the past, I simply stopped socializing with that person. Jake did me a massive favour in making me stand up for him and, ultimately, for myself. And, with that, I focused on the things I wanted in life.
I worked hard and, two years later, bought a lovely little river boat for Jake and myself. We moved in and set up home beside the river in Chertsey, Surrey. Though Jake wasn’t fond of the water, he loved everything around it. He hopped on and off when he needed a loo break, and if there was a patch of sunshine pouring into the boat, he was in it. He’d lie there until he was so hot he was panting, then slide into a shady patch until he’d cooled down, and repeat the whole cycle.
Our walks in Battersea Park were replaced with early-morning strolls along the foggy river, and the pigeons he loved to chase were replaced by ducks and geese.
In time, I built up the life Jake and I had together. I bought a better van and nipped into London to do my gardening rounds. For our time off, I bought an Ordnance Survey map of wherever we were moored and we’d go exploring.
Normally, Jake would wake up in the night at one or two o’clock and hop off the boat to have a wee. The tap, tap, tap of his paws usually woke me and I’d stay awake till he was back. But one night he didn’t return in the normal few minutes. I stood up and opened the door – and that’s when I heard the most almighty howling.
I dashed on to land and sprinted towards where the sound was coming from. I got to him as he was dragging himself out of the bushes. My eyes stung with tears. Jake’s back legs and tail were limp and he was howling with pain.
I picked him up, put him into the van, and rushed to the twenty-four-hour vet I’d registered him with. There, the junior vet gave him a shot of morphine and put him gently into a kennel. We’d have to wait until nine a.m. before they could operate. The vet didn’t know what was wrong with him and I left in a panic.
I didn’t sleep until the vet, Gerrard, called the next morning. ‘I think he’s burst a disc and is going to need emergency surgery.’ There was a pause. ‘He might not make it, Mark.’
I nodded silently into the phone, then said: ‘Do what you can.’
‘I’ll call you later.’
Every minute was like an hour as I waited for news until, finally, I learnt that the operation to remove the ruptured disc had gone well. I was desperate to see Jake but Gerrard said it was best that he didn’t move or get excited so I should wait for twenty-four hours.
The next morning, I was the first person at the surgery. I’d picked up a packet of ham, Jake’s favourite treat, but when I saw him, he refused to look at me. I sat with him and softly reassured him that I wasn’t going to leave him alone again. After thirty minutes, he turned to me, eyes blazing with emotion. Don’t. Do. That. To. Me. Again.
Then he snapped the ham out of my hand.
‘That’s my boy,’ I said.
Later, Gerrard told me the nerve in Jake’s back had been severely pinched and he would need a lot of physio and care over the next year to get his legs functioning again. I told him I’d do whatever it took.
The following day I visited Jake in the clinic and carried him into its little garden. His back had been completely shaved and he had stitches running from his neck to his tail. He wasn’t moving or excited by anything, so I hoped the fresh air would help. As we sat there, the birds were chirping and
, suddenly, a squirrel dashed across the garden wall to the side of us. Jake’s ears pricked up. He followed the squirrel with manic eyes and began to bark.
I knew then that, together, we’d do it.
I had three months off work and took Jake to hydrotherapy and physiotherapy every day. I learnt how to massage his legs to help build his strength until he was able to stand up, walk and, eventually, run. He couldn’t jump any more but that didn’t stop him. Life continued and many years passed.
Every Christmas, I got out his antlers and little cape and dressed him up. He loved Christmas as much as I did, and when I met someone special, Melanie, Jake loved her too. He was always so excited to see her whenever she visited and loved having her attention. He still dug for moles and had silly moments – even aged sixteen, he could throw you a dirty look like no human I’d ever known – but as he got older, he slowed down a bit.
One afternoon, I was fetching something from the van and Jake was sniffing about by our favourite willow tree next to the river. The next time I looked up, he was gone. I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach and my senses were on high alert. Something was terribly wrong. I rushed to the spot where I’d seen him last, then heard splashing and whining.
That was when I spotted Jake in the water. He hated it and was struggling to stay afloat. I reached in just as he plunged under the surface and pulled him out. His eyes had glazed over and I shouted at him to breathe as I rubbed his chest. Suddenly, he took a breath and coughed up a lot of water – I could see he’d had a real fright. I took him inside, dried him off and treated him to some chicken before placing him in his bed.
I sat beside him and thought: That’s put a real strain on his heart.
When he started wriggling in pain, I took him to the vet, who gave him painkillers and offered antibiotics in case he’d swallowed anything nasty in that water. But the look on his face told me all I needed to know. The antibiotics would be useless because Jake wasn’t going to recover. He said: ‘Would you like to leave Jake here, with us?’
I shook my head. I took him home and held him in my arms. It was obvious that Jake was fading but he kept fighting it. Even in his last moments he was fighting it. So I held him close to me and whispered: ‘It’s OK to go now, Jake.’ He slipped away in my hands.
Jake died on 14 December 2013. I’d had him for sixteen years and two days.
We buried him under his favourite willow tree and I kept a candle burning for him day and night. I even woke up in the early hours to light a new one. Even then, I half expected to hear the pitter-patter of his feet as he hopped outside for a wee.
Everything looked the same – the boat, the sky, the road, our things – but without Jake, everything felt different. My life had been structured around him for so long that now the gaping holes in it were glaringly obvious and unbearably painful.
Christmas passed in a blur and Jake’s presents sat wrapped up in the corner. He usually loved to rip off the paper and get to the good stuff he knew was waiting for him underneath.
Mel struggled, too, and we really felt Jake’s absence.
I’d always vowed not to get another dog straight away, if something happened to Jake, but now I couldn’t see another way around it – I couldn’t stand being without my dog.
Before the New Year, Mel and I were talking and I told her: ‘I think I’d like to get another dog.’
She nodded and said: ‘It’s quiet without him, isn’t it?’ A few days later, she said: ‘Do you want to go to Battersea today?’
It was like one of those comedy moments in a cartoon when a light-bulb appears above a character’s head. ‘That’s a brilliant idea,’ I said. I knew that I’d like another puppy and I reckoned there would be a waiting list. ‘Let’s go and put our names down.’ I was sure it would be a few months before we were lucky enough to get a puppy.
We went along to Battersea Old Windsor, near where we were moored up, and spoke to a rehomer there. As I told Ali about Jake and what I was hoping to find, a funny look crossed her face. ‘It’s strange you’re saying this because we’ve just had a male Jack Russell cross puppy in. He arrived yesterday.’
I didn’t know what to say so I waited for her to continue.
‘Do you want to see a picture?’ Ali said. She pulled up an image on her phone.
I laughed. ‘Gosh,’ I said, taking in the puppy’s black coat, his tan face and paws. ‘He’s just like Jake.’
Ali told me Sprout was the last of a litter of six and his mother had started snapping at him. ‘His owner was worried there was something wrong with him and his mum was rejecting him so she brought him in.’
‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘We checked him over and assessed him thoroughly, but as we did that, we realized there’s nothing wrong with Sprout – he’s just a pest!’
I thought: I like him already.
‘Would you like to meet him?
Mel and I went along to the puppy area and one of the other girls brought out the little Jack Russell cross. We had a play with him and I felt a jumble of emotions. I hadn’t planned to leave with a dog but Sprout was so cute. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure I was ready.
Ali came back and I smiled at her. ‘What’s happening?’ I said.
‘Do you want to take him?’
‘So we can have him?’ I replied, genuinely surprised that twice in a lifetime I’d been lucky enough to be deemed worthy by Battersea.
‘You can have him tomorrow.’
Mel and I stepped aside and had a chat, then returned to the rehomer. ‘Can I say yes, but ask you to let me sleep on it till tomorrow?’ I said.
‘Of course.’
I’d always joked that I was ‘Never Ready Mark’ so to make such a decision about the puppy was hard. I was completely torn because I was still grieving over Jake, but now I’d held Sprout in my arms, I didn’t want anyone else to have him. ‘Don’t give him to anyone else, will you?’ I said, just before we left.
Next morning, I woke up at six thirty, as always. I stared over to where Jake would normally have been snoozing and my heart felt heavy. But the confusion had lifted.
Mel and I returned to Battersea, ready to take our new dog home.
Milo, as we named him, literally pinged around the living area on the boat, jamming himself into every corner, sniffing this and sniffing that. He trampled over me in bed, knocked things over and pulled at the toilet paper. He was three months old and a complete scoundrel, just like Jake had been.
He had so much energy and personality – I’d forgotten what it was like to have a puppy around. It was a fabulous distraction but only for minutes at a time. I kept calling him Jake by accident, and when I took him to the vet two weeks later to register him, I made a confession: ‘I’m so close to taking him back to Battersea, Gerrard. I just can’t help how much I miss Jake. And Milo isn’t Jake.’
Gerrard was sympathetic. ‘It takes a bit of time. You owe yourself that, and you owe Milo that.’
I could see where he was coming from and I returned home with a new take on things. I’d made a commitment to Milo and I wasn’t about to quit. Instead of focusing on Jake’s absence, I focused on Milo more closely. I tried to get to know him. We played together, and whenever the sun spilt in through the window, I noticed Milo lay there until he was so hot he was panting, just like Jake had. It was a comfort.
Slowly, his personality started to shine through, and once he was able to go outside and we went on walks together, the bond really began to form. I realized how much I’d missed that routine and exercise. Everything always seemed better after a good walk.
Milo loved them too and he loved being around other dogs. He didn’t care if it was a Chihuahua or a Dobermann – if there was another dog nearby he’d try his luck and ask if they wanted to play. He was fearless, so full of himself, and I loved that about him.
At home, he wanted our attention, and if we didn’t give it to him, he’d throw his bed around. He’d gone through three
by the summer. By then, I’d learnt that Milo loves water with the same passion that Jake had hated it. He came to work with me, and when I watered the garden, Milo stood at the end of the stream and snapped his jaws at the water, trying to catch it. He jumped in the river and loved to swim. He was a whirlwind.
At night, when he’d run out of steam and stopped trying to find the one item in the boat you’d chase him for, he’d settle between Mel and me on the sofa for a nap. Then I’d look at him, his tongue lolling out as he nestled his head on my lap, and feel fit to burst with love for him.
He’s a cheeky little fella and he can be a pain in the bum sometimes, but he’s my pain in the bum.
The last year has not been easy with the grief I felt for Jake … but then Milo came along. He’s a big step forward in my life. He’s made things complicated and pushed me into uncharted territory because he’s Mel’s dog as well as mine, but that’s a good thing because we’re moving forward.
Milo is not the dog I had before, and sometimes I feel guilty that I have a new dog, but life goes on, doesn’t it?
There’s no guarantee that I’ve got Milo for longer than another day, and that in itself has made me understand how very precious he is to me. In fact, he’s just as precious as Jake was. He’s already given me so much – I can’t wait for Christmas, to pull out those antlers and sling that cape around his neck, because I know Christmas is going to be a blast this year with Milo around.
4. Brother from Another Mother
I was coming home from work when the London riots broke out in the summer of 2011. At first, it felt like a horrible nightmare. Then something happened that brought it much closer to home.
My partner Josh’s sister Rosemary became a victim of the violence when her flat was burnt down. Luckily, she hadn’t been there when it happened but firefighters had gone in to rescue her little cats, Pickle and Pootle, who were trapped inside.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 5