He very much became our dog. Terry and I worked for the same employer, Terry full time as a maintenance manager and I part time on the shop floor, so we managed to establish a routine with Venger. Terry took him out in the morning and I walked him in the afternoon.
The boys had long since moved out when, one day, Venger collapsed. He was old and grey, nearing the end of his life. I knew the time to say goodbye would soon be upon us – it was just a matter of when. I took him to the vet, fearing the worst, but she prescribed some tablets for his spleen. I felt a rush of relief. We still had some time together.
As we chatted, the vet, who was lovely, an Australian called Lucia, told me about another Staffie cross. ‘Buster was abandoned by his owners and we’ve been taking care of him. We’ve treated him for prostate cancer but I can’t keep him with me much longer.’
I thought back to the friend who’d given Venger to us. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘I’ve got a cat. Buster and she aren’t getting along,’ she replied. ‘It’s not ideal for him to stay with me any more.’
While she continued checking Venger over, I nipped outside to the car where Terry was waiting. I told him about Buster. ‘What do you think?’
‘I know what you’re thinking and I don’t see why not.’
I went back inside and told Lucia that I had a solution for her. ‘We’ll take Buster home with us.’
Lucia’s face lit up and mine did the same. I’d gone in expecting to say goodbye to Venger and now I was returning not only with him but Buster too.
Now that Venger was older and didn’t care too much for long walks, we took him out first for a short one and returned to take Buster for a longer one. But over the next week, something odd happened. Suddenly Venger was livelier.
‘Is it just me or is Venger being a bit competitive?’ I asked Terry.
‘I didn’t think the old boy had it in him but, yes, I think you’re right, Pat,’ he agreed.
It was a side to Venger we hadn’t seen before.
By this time Venger didn’t much like playing but he huffed and puffed when Buster bounded around him. He vied for our attention, and our home lit up with the energy Buster had brought to it.
We took the boys everywhere with us, whether it was on a walk to the bakery around the corner or to the park for a stroll in the afternoon. I realized how much I’d missed mothering someone, taking care of them and worrying about their food or clearing up after them.
Derek lived far away but David popped in when he could, and he had the energy to roll around and play with the dogs. It was then I began to see that the dogs had filled a void I hadn’t truly recognized. I found myself clearing up after Buster, who pulled his toys out of the basket we kept them in, and when he prodded me awake in the morning, I was transported back to when Derek and David were little and would rush into our room on a Sunday morning, desperate for us to get up and play.
Tragedy struck just before Christmas when, one morning, Venger couldn’t get up. We took him to the vet, and this time, there were no pills to help him. We told him we loved him and the vet put him to sleep. I thought my heart would break in two.
When we arrived home, Buster rushed to me, circled around me, then stared at the door. Where’s my friend?
I knelt down and told him, in words he couldn’t possibly understand: ‘Venger’s gone, my darling.’ I petted him and stroked him, then held him close because I reckoned that was a language Buster would understand. He stayed in my arms for a while, not getting bored or wanting his toys. He sensed that Terry and I needed him and stayed by our sides. He was such a comfort to have around.
We decided to downsize from our large family home. The house was simply too big for us, the garden too much work. We found a lovely new home with more than enough room for the three of us and our offer was accepted. As the process got under way, Terry and I had the mammoth task of packing up a lifetime of belongings. It was bittersweet when we found the odd children’s book in the loft, a remnant of the family we’d nurtured together, but we were excited, too, about the move.
Months later, Buster’s prostate cancer returned. There was no treatment that would hold it at bay as it was too advanced. Once more, Terry and I went to the vet and left without the dog we’d come to love so much. This time when we got home the silence was deafening. With Buster gone, who would comfort us now? The dogs had given our days structure, colour and light, and the loss of their companionship was a bitter pill to swallow.
The grief gripped me at the oddest times. I’d be working my way through a pile of ironing while Terry ran an errand or did some shopping and I’d look up from my ironing table, expecting Venger or Buster to be snoozing nearby or watching me. Instead I’d see an empty space and hear only the hissing of the steam iron.
Those were the moments when it hit me: I felt empty without a dog.
My instinct was to get another dog to fill that void but something held me back.
I’d read a book that said it was not good to get a new dog while you were grieving for one that had gone. The author had explained that if you’re grieving you’ll go into the new relationship with sadness. During that time, the new dog will pick up on your emotions and feel sorry for you. I didn’t want that to be the case but I couldn’t stifle my longing, and that was when Terry and I found ourselves at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. We registered our details and later walked slowly along the kennels, looking at every dog and reading each profile. We knew we wanted another dog, but which one would be the right match?
Right at the end of our tour, I noticed a dog sitting quietly in her kennel. She was a beautiful Ridgeback cross, and when I arrived in front of her, something wonderful happened. Tammy looked at me with such love and recognition that she might have been saying hello to me for the hundredth time, not the first. I looked at her and she gazed at me. In that moment, we fell in love.
Tammy came home with us that day, and for the first time in our lives, we had a daughter. Terry adored her as much as I did and we took her for long walks in the morning and evening. Whenever we went on holiday we made sure it was to a hotel or B&B in the UK that accepted canine guests. We didn’t spend a day apart.
She was mostly quite a noisy presence but some days the house would fall silent and I’d find Tammy hiding under our bed. We didn’t know what had happened in her past, but I could feel the insecurity rolling off her in waves. I’d kneel down and say, ‘Come on, girl, come out, you’re OK.’ She’d edge her way forward for a cuddle. Sometimes I’d worry that the grief she’d felt in me when she’d first arrived in our home had caused her to feel she couldn’t come to me for comfort when she needed it, which made me sad. But I knew the only way forward was to find her every time she hid and give her the comfort she might have felt unable to ask for.
Other times, we’d be out and she’d suddenly cower behind me, but I realized there was a pattern to that: she did it whenever she saw a man in a cap or a hat. Again I wondered about her life before us. What had happened to cause her to react like that? Sometimes I’d look into her soulful eyes and will her to tell me. I knew it wasn’t possible, of course, but it didn’t stop me wondering.
Luckily, I worked only four hours a day, when our lovely neighbour would take Tammy into his home. I’d return to find her staring at me from next door’s living-room window. The look of anticipation in her eyes warmed my heart.
We made some changes for Tammy’s sake. We swapped our Honda 4x4 for a Subaru that was closer to the ground so she could get in and out of the back with ease.
Eventually, she developed skin cancer on her chest. We nursed her until we knew that no amount of treatment or medication would make her better. When Tammy was thirteen, two years after her diagnosis, she became disoriented and couldn’t walk. She was shaking her head constantly, and the vet reckoned the cancer had spread: she had a tumour in her ear, affecting her balance and co-ordination. With heavy hearts, we knew it was Tammy’s time. In mid-November as the frost set in, w
e took her to the vet and stayed with her till her eyes closed and her chest stilled.
When we got home, there was no furry face to greet us, and our home, though smaller than the family one we’d spent years in, felt suddenly like a cavernous, echoing space. Despite the pictures of our family on the walls, and all our belongings, which made the house our home, it was as if the soul of the place had been sucked out. I worried that some of my friends who didn’t have dogs wouldn’t understand how sad I was about Tammy and didn’t talk to them about it. How could I explain to them that the grief I felt for Tammy was similar to that which I’d felt when I’d lost my parents? It seemed silly to say it out loud, but that was how I felt. Nothing brought me happiness, and I could see Terry felt the same.
We had her cremated and when we received her ashes, I cried and cried. But it gave me comfort to have her in our house again, in whatever form.
By now Terry and I had retired and this was the perfect time to do some travelling. For years, we’d dreamt of going back to Australia where we’d lived for eight years and where our children were born. Yet we couldn’t bring ourselves to look at any travel brochures or flight costs. Our life had involved so many changes in recent years – retirement, a new home and the loss of Tammy – that maybe a trip away and a new adventure was exactly what we needed.
The more we talked about it, though, the more we realized that no place we went to would mean anything to us without a dog, which left us wondering something: was it right to bring a dog into our lives now?
Two weeks after we’d lost Tammy, we came to a conclusion. We could splash out on an amazing holiday for two or three weeks, but when we returned to our home in Surrey, we’d still be unhappy. Nothing would bring us as much pleasure as a dog.
‘It’s more important that we’re happy day to day,’ I told Terry.
‘I completely agree. Let’s take a trip to Battersea tomorrow.’
We visited Battersea Old Windsor and looked around the kennels but, sadly, none of the dogs grabbed our attention.
On our way out, a member of the public pulled up in a van. When he got out, he opened the passenger door and took out an open box. Immediately the air was filled with the whines and yelps of tiny puppies.
I stopped him. ‘May I have a look?’
‘Of course.’
Inside the box seven tiny brindle puppies were wriggling and writhing over each other. They were beautiful – had I seen them inside, I would have been taking one home with me. But it would be a while before those Staffie pups were ready for rehoming, and I didn’t think I could wait.
On the train journey home Terry and I agreed that none of the dogs we’d seen had felt right for us. For me, picking a dog is like picking a new friend. You can meet a person you like but it can be some time before you find another that you like just as much. Would I ever love another dog as I’d loved Tammy?
We arrived home feeling blue. Tammy had been a real daddy’s girl and Terry missed her just as much as I did. He didn’t have to say it but I knew what he was likely to be thinking. Maybe it wasn’t meant for us to have another dog. But I was ever the optimist and I hoped there was something very special in store for us.
Christmas that year came and went quietly. Terry and I were not in the mood and didn’t put up a tree or swap presents. Instead, we went to our son Derek and his wife Katie’s home in Northamptonshire for a quiet family day with our grandchildren. Katie always put on a beautiful Christmas, and that year was no exception. Her home twinkled with fairy lights and she cooked the most amazing dinner.
Underneath, though, Tammy’s absence weighed heavily upon us. Had it not been for our prearranged plans, Terry and I would have stayed at home because we were having a difficult time coming to terms with Tammy’s death. It was hard for us to celebrate anything without her.
Five days later, Terry and I decided to try Battersea in London. It was quite busy but a rehomer, Sarah, was able to talk us through the procedures and ask us what we had in mind. As we were previous owners, who’d taken a dog home from Battersea, our details were still on the system so she invited us to have a look around the kennels. ‘Let me know if you see any dogs you’d like to meet,’ she said.
Terry and I were looking for a dog around two years old, which didn’t need to be trained like a puppy but would be with us for a considerable time. We couldn’t take the grief of another loss so soon, should we take in an older dog.
Sarah showed us to a meeting room, then went to fetch a young Staffie we’d seen earlier and pointed out to her. She brought her back for us and, after a gentle introduction, left us to get to know her.
She was very playful, and even when we put the ball away, she went looking for it. But we could see she was more interested in her ball than getting to know us and was not the social dog we wanted. She wasn’t the one who would bring us the companionship we were missing but we were certain she’d be great for a family with children looking for a fun dog with play in mind.
Now it was late in the afternoon and I was losing hope that we’d find a dog that day.
When Sarah returned, we shared our thoughts and a frown of concentration crossed her face. After a few moments, she said: ‘Would you be interested in a puppy?’
I looked at Terry with a never-say-never expression. ‘We’ll have a look,’ he said.
Sarah smiled. ‘I’ll go and get him so you can meet him.’
Minutes later, she returned and in her arms was a beautiful blond puppy with a grey face and ears. I couldn’t help but gasp. ‘He’s gorgeous!’ I said.
Sarah nodded and placed the puppy on the floor. ‘This is Dancer. His litter arrived here shortly before Christmas Eve, and we named them all after Father Christmas’s reindeer.’
I thought it was a perfect name for him as he danced about excitedly by our feet, stopping for strokes as he brushed past us. We learnt that he was an Akita cross and likely to be a decent size. He was only a foot high right now, but even if he did become quite big, I knew it wouldn’t be a problem: we’d handled a large dog and could do it again.
I glanced at Terry and, to my delight, his face was lit up, much like mine must have been. I thought: Yes! This little puppy is the one!
‘He’s a real sweetie,’ Sarah told us.
That much was clear. We sat on the floor while Dancer sniffed us and everything else in the room. He wasn’t timid, frightened or needy. He was, in fact, a little bit cocky and, as he bounded over my lap and into Terry’s, I loved him instantly.
We told Sarah we’d love to be Dancer’s new family.
Dancer and his litter had come in suffering with giardiasis, a parasitic infection in the intestine, and Sarah wanted the vet to have a chat with us about it.
When he arrived, he said: ‘We’re quite positive Dancer will be OK, but we’d like to keep him here for a couple more days, just to keep an eye on him.’ We were desperate to take Dancer home but what the vet was saying was for the best: giardiasis can be fatal in puppies, if it goes unchecked. And while the wait would be agonising, it meant we had a bit of time to prepare the house for Dancer’s arrival.
We returned home on the train, but this time, instead of feeling sad, we were elated.
We had plans with our neighbours that night, and when we arrived for drinks, Terry took out his phone and showed everybody a picture of Dancer. ‘That’s our new puppy,’ he said.
‘Isn’t he gorgeous?’ I added.
We couldn’t stop talking about him and our friends couldn’t wait to meet Dancer – we had decided to rename him Sam.
On the Internet we learnt what we could about what to expect from an Akita, and on New Year’s Eve, we bought bedding, toys, food and a cage, if he wanted it, to help Sam feel secure and safe in the house. We saw in the New Year full of excitement and were jittery with the anticipation of picking Sam up and bringing him home. The next day, we did just that, armed with leaflets and a book from Battersea about how to care for a puppy.
On the way Sam
was ill in the car. I put it down to nerves and excitement.
We got him home and, like a child at bathtime, Sam stood in the tub and let me wash him. As I rinsed his soft fur with warm water, he looked at me and wagged his tail. His eyes were telling me: Thank you, Mummy.
The only time he moved was to try to bite the flow of water pouring over him. It was so adorable I wanted to squeeze his gorgeous little face.
It had been many years since I’d bathed a child and never a puppy but it felt familiar to me and I cherished that lovely moment between us.
But the following day Sam was hot, feverish and lethargic. He became floppy and I called Battersea, who advised me to bring him back to be checked over in the clinic.
I was worried it might be the giardiasis, so Terry and I rushed him straight to London.
At Battersea’s clinic the vet took Sam’s temperature, which was high.
‘What does that mean?’ I asked anxiously.
He said Sam needed to be put on a drip as he was showing signs of dehydration.
‘How long will that take?’ I asked.
‘I’m afraid he’ll have to stay here overnight.’
My stomach dropped, the way it does when you drive up a hill and dip down over the other side. Three times in my life I’d gone into a veterinary clinic with a dog I loved and left without them. Would this time end in tragedy too?
I couldn’t bear the thought.
I couldn’t bring myself to say goodbye to Sam so I left with a new, stubborn thought in mind: I’d be back to pick up our puppy. And soon.
I spent the night in bits and barely slept for worry. But I knew that Sam was in safe hands at the Battersea clinic and told myself so every time my stomach rolled in that horrible, anxious way.
Early the next morning, I phoned for an update.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 11