Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope

by Battersea Dogs

  ‘Sam perked up after being on the drip,’ the nurse said. ‘His temperature has gone down …’

  There was a pause and my heart skipped a beat.

  Then she said: ‘He’s quite mischievous, isn’t he?’

  I was so relieved. ‘He can be as mischievous as he wants,’ I replied, trying hard not to cry, ‘as long as we can bring him home.’

  She told me Sam was ready to be picked up so, once more, we drove into London to collect him.

  When he was brought out, he leapt into my arms and I didn’t let him go.

  On our way out, the nurse gave us a tip. ‘My dog is clever and mischievous like Sam and I play a little game with him that he loves. Maybe Sam will like it too.’

  When she explained what it was, I said: ‘We’ll have to give it a try.’

  Back home, I placed a treat on the table and, with Sam on my lap, I covered the treat with an upturned melamine breakfast bowl. I placed two empty bowls next to the one with a treat in it and, like a magician, whizzed the bowls this way and that.

  When all the whizzing had come to a stop, Sam reached out and tapped the bowl on the right with his paw.

  I lifted it up and there was the treat. ‘What a clever little boy you are, Sam!’

  From then on, that was Sam’s favourite game. But after a while I discovered I could do it without the treat and Sam was still happy. As long as he got his paws on that bowl, he was chuffed.

  I replaced the melamine bowls with stainless-steel ones, and the minute Sam got hold of one, he was off around our home. He pushed it this way and that way and flipped it over. Whenever he got too excited and shoved it under the sofa by mistake, he came looking for me or Terry and whined at us until we followed him to where he’d lost the bowl. We started taking it in turns – it happened so often.

  Just like the nurse at Battersea had told us, Sam was indeed mischievous. If I was wearing a dressing-gown and the cord from the waist was hanging down, Sam would be jumping up at me and grabbing it. If I left a slipper unsupervised or if Terry kicked off his socks, Sam was straight on to them. It was like having a tiny child in the house and thoroughly lovely.

  It made me think back to the days when Derek and David had started toddling around and talking to us in the baby chatter that makes your heart melt.

  The yawning emptiness we’d felt after losing Tammy was a distant memory. Now our life was entirely filled with Sam. Our home felt alive with fun and colour, his toys in every room. Sometimes he slept in the cage we’d set up in the kitchen, but mostly he liked his special spot in our bedroom. He’d wait on our bed as Terry and I brushed our teeth, and when we came in, he’d try his luck.

  Terry and I would manoeuvre ourselves under the covers and if Sam hadn’t gone to his little spot between the wardrobe and my bedside table, I’d say: ‘Sam, are you going to get into your own bed?’

  He would play dumb for a couple of minutes but we knew that he was very smart.

  The moment I said, ‘If you don’t get into your own bed, Sam, you’ll have to sleep in the kitchen,’ he would move. It did the trick every time. Again, he reminded me of when our children were young and they’d sneak into our bed after a nightmare or just for a cuddle.

  Throughout the winter, Terry got up in the middle of the night to let Sam out for a wee, and I’d hold back my laughter as he pulled on trousers over his pyjama bottoms, then a jumper and coat. We both knew Sam wouldn’t be in a hurry to come back inside. He wasn’t a big fan of snow and didn’t like it if the ground was wet, but he could be quite stubborn, typical of his Akita background. If he didn’t want to come in, he would sit on the pavement and refuse to budge. When they finally returned, Sam would snuggle under Terry’s neck in the bed and we’d let him get away with that one. But as Sam grew and threatened to shove me out of bed, I’d tell him: ‘If you don’t move over, Sam, you’ll have to go in your own bed.’

  That was enough and he’d straighten himself out.

  When spring arrived, we decided to take Sam to puppy class to ensure he was trained properly. He rubbed along well with the other dogs, but at the end of each session, when the dogs were allowed a little play as a treat, Sam seemed always to be the one in trouble. The lady who provided the training told me Sam was a bit of a bully, which worried me.

  I called Battersea to speak to one of the behaviourists about my concerns and was put in touch with a lady who trained dogs for TV programmes. She came along to meet Sam at home. I told her my worries, then said, ‘If there’s a problem with Sam’s behaviour, I’d like to nip it in the bud.’

  ‘I understand, but let’s have a look at how he interacts with other dogs first.’

  We all set off to the park and there we let Sam and her dog, a beautiful Collie, off their leads to have a play. They ran circles around each other and dashed about together just fine.

  ‘He’s doing exactly what I’d expect him to do,’ the trainer said. ‘Sam will be absolutely fine. Just keep doing what you’re doing.’

  It was such a relief to know we were doing the right thing by Sam and I was so happy I’d made that call to Battersea.

  We did some extra training sessions with Sam after the first course and took him on lots of day trips. From our home in Surrey, we ventured to various parks and National Trust sites and he got on well with every dog he encountered. The worries I’d had about his behaviour melted away as he proved himself over and over. Sam was very well behaved and so handsome that everywhere we went people stopped us to talk about him. I was so proud of him. Terry and I told them about his Christmas arrival at Battersea and how we’d taken him on. I told everyone we met: ‘He’s changed our lives.’

  And he really had. We found ourselves getting up at seven to take him for his morning walk. We met so many new people and got chatting to other dog owners while we were out and about. When I described him to Rita, one of the ladies I walked with, she said: ‘Wasn’t he in the newspaper at Christmas?’

  I didn’t know anything about that.

  ‘There was something in the Daily Mail about a gorgeous litter of Akita cross puppies who needed a new home on Christmas Day,’ Rita went on. ‘One of them had a grey face – it must have been Sam!’

  When I got home, I turned the computer on and, with Terry at my side, Googled for the article. A link appeared: ‘Santa’s little yelpers’.

  We clicked into it and there on the screen were eight gorgeous little puppies, including Sam. That made me think about Sam’s brothers and sisters. Where had they ended up?

  I sent a picture of Sam to Battersea’s magazine Paws and it was published. In time, two families who had adopted Sam’s brothers, Cupid and Prancer, contacted the magazine too. One had paid for a DNA test, which showed the puppies are an Akita, Foxhound and Staffie mix.

  It felt good to know more about Sam, and now we knew the mix, it was easy to attribute his traits to his heritage. Whenever he had a soft, gentle moment, his Staffie background shone through. When we were at home and somebody knocked, he rushed to the door to check out our visitor – typical of the loyal, protective behaviour Akitas are known for. As for his Foxhound genes, we reckoned they fuelled his adventurous side.

  On walks, Sam would make a beeline for the patisserie near our home. We knew what he wanted so we’d stop for a coffee and a croissant and treat Sam to a nibble. After a while, he came to understand that he’d get his proper breakfast after we’d walked him, so in the mornings, he’d refuse to leave the house until we’d fed him.

  He was too clever for his own good and ours!

  Every day at four o’clock, it wasn’t Sam’s tummy rumbling that caught my attention, it was his chatter. He’d come to me and urge me into the kitchen. Once he got me there, he stared at the drawer that he knew his dinner was kept in. If I didn’t do as he asked, or I forgot to give him a treat, he’d bark at me.

  To keep Sam stimulated, we took him to doggy daycare once a week where he had a chance to run around with lots of other dogs. He absolutely loved it
, and whenever we got into the car and turned into a certain road, he’d start howling and whining in anticipation of arriving at his favourite place. It was fun for Sam but also good for Terry and me to have an afternoon getting odd jobs done or seeing friends.

  Other than those days, Sam came everywhere with us, just like Tammy had before him, and Venger and Buster before her. We took walking holidays around the coast or to Gloucestershire and the Cotswolds. He loved to wallow in the mud pools left behind by tractors and we let him get on with it. Afterwards, he’d stand perfectly still and let us wash him down with a bowl of water, no fuss.

  As the year went on, Terry and I decided to sell our home and move to a beautiful converted farmhouse on the West Sussex coast. There, we’d have a duplex apartment with a garden for Sam and walks in the nearby countryside. Everything was set for us to enjoy our first Christmas in our new home so I bought a brand-new tree and decorations and packed it all away, ready to put up after the move. I made a food order online, to arrive at our new home on Christmas Eve.

  Our old home was filled with boxes, forty-one in the living room, when, just days before the move to the South Downs, our buyer dropped out. It was such a blow but, instead of feeling sad, I pulled out the Christmas tree and set it up in the living room between piles of boxes. It was all because of Sam that I found the will to do it. Having him with us had filled us with excitement for Christmas and I was not about to let the move falling through ruin it.

  On Christmas Day, we woke up early, surrounded by boxes and the gorgeous Christmas tree, and swapped presents. The only thing Terry and I were really interested in was seeing Sam open his. He loved ripping off the wrapping paper, and when he discovered he had a new ball, it became his pride and joy for the rest of the day.

  Later, Terry and I went to the pub across the road with our neighbours who, like us, had family living far away. Sam was with us in the bar for most of the day. In a quiet moment, I nudged Terry. ‘Isn’t this a world away from last year?’

  He nodded, knowing I was thinking about Tammy. ‘How life moves on …’ he said wistfully.

  Now, Sam is three years old, and doesn’t realize how big he is. Every morning he jumps on the bed, like he did when he was a puppy, and lies on top of me, covering me from head to toe, as if he’s as light as a feather. He has his mad minutes but he’s a good boy and will do as he’s told. He’s like a teenager, in some respects, growing into the sweetest dog, coming into his own, learning new things and understanding more about the world. Like Derek and David in that phase, Sam is forming his own relationships. If we skip a party with our neighbours and take Sam out, it’s only an hour or two before our phones start beeping. Where’s Sam? Won’t you bring him over? We miss him …

  I feel like a proud parent because, in a lot of ways, having a dog is like having a child. Emotionally, you go through similar things. He’s as soft as he looks and makes Terry and me very happy because of the companionship he offers. He also gets us out and about. For a retired couple like us, it’s not just about having a dog: we’re adopting a certain lifestyle and that’s what we adore about having a dog like Sam.

  Nothing can bring us more joy, love and company than a dog and Sam ticks all of those boxes for us. He’s brought us back from a very unhappy place and has made us feel fulfilled and content with our lot in life.

  Without Battersea, none of this would have been possible. It took us three visits to their centres before we found Sam, but the rehomers worked with us to make sure we were matched correctly.

  I won’t ever understand how any owner could love and nurture a dog for years, then give them up but I’m grateful that a place like Battersea exists. Because of Battersea, people like us, who are in a position to offer an animal unconditional love, can take in a dog who will give back all that love and care.

  And you can’t put a price on it.

  8. A Twist of Fate

  The Charmer

  Making my early-morning rounds of Battersea’s kennels, I came across a little white scruff of a dog. From the description on his kennel, I could see he was a Jack Russell cross and only four months old. Looking into his sad puppy-dog eyes, I felt a funny warm feeling spread out from my chest, down my arms and into my fingertips. I just knew Charlie was going to be my dog.

  I was head of Intake and Assessment at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. Over the three years I’d spent working there, I’d seen hundreds of animals come and go, and every now and then, one would capture my heart. For months, I’d been thinking of looking for a feisty, hard-working Patterdale Terrier but now, seeing Charlie shaking and looking a bit sorry for himself, I was certain he belonged with me.

  I introduced myself. Then he looked up at me with eyes that said, Get me out of here, Liz, and I was smitten.

  Charlie had come in days earlier as a stray. He’d been found tied up near London City Airport, with a small empty food bowl beside him. Whoever had abandoned him had felt some responsibility towards him, but how anyone could abandon a puppy like that was beyond me. Luckily for Charlie, a passer-by had found him and kept him for a week before handing him in to us for rehoming.

  I wanted to be the one who gave Charlie a new home but there was a problem. He was already earmarked as a possible working dog in our service dogs programme, which finds working homes for some of our animals with the right temperament to cope in such environments. They may become sniffer dogs and search for drugs, people, arms, cigarettes and cash. Charlie, however, seemed suitable for a trainer who worked with dogs in TV and film. It wasn’t ideal, given that I wanted him, but I took it on the chin. It was just one of those things. As he was a puppy, I volunteered to foster him at home until his seven ‘stray days’ were up, and he was officially the Home’s property, legally available for rehoming.

  That night, Charlie came home to my flat and was no longer the shaky, nervous little dog I’d seen in the kennel. He was cocky, confident and strutted around like he owned the place.

  It was impossible not to fall in love with his brattish personality, even if he was a handful at times. He was a lovable rogue with a bit of attitude, but I liked that. I took Charlie to work with me, and at the station he had a habit of finding food, a discarded chicken wing or some gum, to gobble up. He had the uncanny ability to spot something he considered edible at a hundred paces, and once he had it in his jaws, it was near impossible to get it out, so fast could he swallow it.

  I resorted to using a harness that muzzled his mouth, not because he was aggressive but because it gave me a fighting chance to wrangle away from him whatever rubbish he’d found on the floor!

  As I got to know Charlie, I wondered why the passer-by who’d found him at the airport had brought him to Battersea instead of keeping him. I reckoned it was because of his naughty streak. I could see that if Charlie didn’t go to a working home, and was rehomed to a family, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he would be given back to Battersea because of his mischievous ways. However, if his new owner had experience of terriers, and understood Charlie’s rebellious streak, they might be happy to put up with it. Someone like me, who found it endearing. But anyone who hadn’t had a dog before, and was sucked in by Charlie’s adorable, deceptively innocent face, would be in for a shock. These were the scenarios that came to mind in the time he spent with me, and I wished there was a way I could take him on, but I had to leave that one up to Fate.

  During the week that I fostered Charlie, I took him for a walk at lunchtime in Battersea Park. He was full of himself and raced around with delight at being outside.

  When his stray days were up, I had some good news. The rehoming team had found the TV trainer another suitable dog and Charlie was up for adoption once more. I went to straight to the office and signed the paperwork to make him officially mine.

  I soon discovered that Charlie had a fiery temperament, which he displayed mostly over resources. If he had a tennis ball or another toy, he gave you a look that warned: I dare you to take it off me. He was qui
te fussy with people too. He rarely liked them but that didn’t stop him playing with their emotions. On our commute to work, he’d wag his tail and stare at other passengers with those appealing eyes. As soon as somebody stooped to say hello, he’d turn up his nose at them and trot away. He loved nothing more than enticing people to pay attention to him, then flat-out rejecting their advances. I spent half my time out with him apologizing and explaining away his behaviour, telling his victims: ‘Sorry, he’s a bit moody sometimes.’ I couldn’t very well say that this apparently adorable little dog was terribly manipulative.

  He settled into the office quite well and would find a chair or a corner to snooze in. Between our trips to and from work, and his lunchtime run, he was quite relaxed. That didn’t stop him trampling across my desk, sitting on my keyboard and firing off random gobbledegook emails with his bum. Whenever I got up, I told him: ‘Don’t you steal my chair now, will you, Charlie?’ Not that it did any good. As soon as I was out of sight, I heard the patter of his feet bounding across the office and jumping into my seat.

  He must have known when I was coming back, by smell or sound, because as I neared my office, I’d hear the chair spinning as Charlie jumped off and ran back to his own spot. I often asked him, ‘If this is what you’re like with paws, what would you get up to if you had opposable thumbs?’

  He didn’t need to answer because I already knew. He loved outsmarting people and dogs and felt no need of friendship beyond mine. I was secretly chuffed I was the only one with that privilege.

  He tolerated other dogs and loved nothing more than winding them up. Unluckily for most of the canines with which he came into contact, Charlie was smarter than they were. It became a constant source of amusement to watch him figure out ways to get the better of his peers.

  When my flatmate brought a Staffie home, Charlie took it upon himself to show him the ropes. He ran around the coffee-table with a toy, tempting the Staffie into a chase. Round and round they went until the Staffie was hot on Charlie’s heels. Then Charlie slid underneath the table and out the other side, leaving the other dog baffled.