Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope

by Battersea Dogs

  That night, Shadow came to bed with me and slept on Michael’s pillow.

  Afterwards, I didn’t let myself grieve properly – I had done so much of that when Michael had been ill – but there were days when I didn’t want to get out of bed or go outside. But my lovely little dog would prod me and remind me that I still had a lot to do and walkies were at the top of the list. He knew how to get me through it.

  We started walking more, and I realized that while Michael had been unwell, my pace of life had slowed down to match his although, thankfully, I was still fit and healthy. Now, with Shadow at my heels, my lifestyle was changing.

  By winter, my wardrobe was filled with walking boots, coats, hats and scarves.

  Every day Shadow and I went to our favourite park where we’d meet lots of friends. There was a group of local people with dogs and every afternoon, at two o’clock, we’d gather at our meeting point by the park’s exercise machines. As soon as we arrived and I opened the car door, Shadow flew out and barked at the waiting gang, as if to say: I’m back!

  While some of the ladies and gentlemen exercised on the machines, the others watched the dogs. And what a gathering it was! There were up to fourteen dogs, including two German Shepherds, two Rottweilers, one Pug, my Pug cross, two Yorkshire Terriers, four mongrels and two Poodles.

  Shadow loved socializing and didn’t have a problem with any of them. The only time he acted up was when he saw a black Labrador that lived in our apartment block. I couldn’t figure out why because the other dog was a lovely one, but I reasoned it was something from Shadow’s past. Eventually, whenever I saw the Labrador’s owner, she’d point in the direction she was walking and I’d take Shadow the other way.

  During the week, Shadow came with me to the offices of the bereavement service. If I was sitting behind the desk in the waiting area, he slept in his basket in a corner of the room. People waited for their appointments two or three at a time in that room. Sometimes they’d become distressed or arrive upset. Whenever that happened, Shadow popped over and gently nudged them to stroke him. It seemed he could sense when somebody was in need and wanted to be there for them. He really was a loving little dog.

  If I got up to go somewhere Shadow would come with me and often we’d encounter someone in tears. I’d stop to talk to them. They’d stroke Shadow and I’d watch as their tears slowed and their shoulders relaxed. Shadow made them feel better, just as he’d given me peace after Michael had passed.

  But Shadow wasn’t always an angel. He could be a bit of a monkey sometimes.

  Whenever he was running about in a field on one of our walks, he found it to his advantage to stop and chat to anyone having a picnic. Once, I waited for him to come back to me, as he always did, and he returned with a pasty in his mouth.

  ‘Shadow!’ I said. ‘Did you steal that?’

  I found the family Shadow had been chatting with and apologized for his theft.

  ‘Oh, he hasn’t stolen it,’ I was told. ‘Our son dropped the pasty on the ground and we gave it to him.’ I wasn’t sure if it was the truth or if the family were trying to save me embarrassment, but it wasn’t the only time Shadow returned to me with other people’s picnic treats in his mouth. He had a habit of slipping into foraging mode so whenever he veered towards a bin or a pile of rubbish I’d guide him the other way and tell him no.

  He learnt very quickly.

  Somehow, with Shadow by my side, the summer flew by and soon the leaves had dropped, the ground had frozen and it was nearly Christmas, which had always been a special time for our family. Some people who’ve suffered a loss may not put up a tree, but that first year after Michael’s passing, I knew he wouldn’t have wanted us to miss out. So, I pulled ours out of the cupboard, and as I decorated it, I told Shadow: ‘This is your first Christmas.’ He watched with curious eyes as I draped the tree in tinsel and fixed colourful baubles in place. I was sure my little man understood that something magical was starting.

  Michael had always loved Christmas and I was determined this year would be as special as ever. I placed flickering candles around the apartment, played Christmas carols and, slowly but surely, started to feel the warm glow of the season.

  The weekend before Christmas, the entire family gathered together and with one of us on the piano, and the rest with maraccas, a drum, a tambourine or other such instruments from my granddaughters’ toy box, we all sang songs and carols. It’s a tradition of ours and that year Shadow watched us, fascinated. For us, that was when Christmas got under way.

  Shadow and I often stayed with Sean and his wife Nicole, but I wanted us to enjoy Christmas morning at our own home. As the big day finally dawned, it was just my little boy and me. I put the radio on in the background, and as jingly music played, we had breakfast together. Afterwards, I gave Shadow his present, which I’d wrapped in green-and-red paper. He tore it apart to find, to his joy, a squeaky meerkat.

  The moment I started opening mine, he put his toy down and watched me. I was certain he knew what was happening.

  Then I packed a bag and Shadow’s furry bed, and drove to Sean’s house. We all had a lovely day together. Sean’s dog, Bentley, a rescue Pointer cross, had tinsel around his collar – even the fish had some on their tank.

  We exchanged gifts and my two granddaughters sat with Bentley and helped him open his presents. Later we all tucked into a wonderful Christmas lunch. On Boxing Day, we repeated all the fun at Claire’s house. There was more turkey and more laughter than you could hope for in a year. Claire’s dogs, Simba, a German Shepherd, Wilma, a rough-haired Jack Russell, and Beanie, the grumpiest and probably the oldest Jack Russell in the world, Shadow and Bentley all had tinsel around their collars, and chased each other happily about, with toys and wrapping paper flying everywhere.

  At lunchtime, the dogs should have known to stay away, but they couldn’t resist running under the table for scraps of turkey. ‘They are naughty, aren’t they?’ I said to Claire. ‘They really shouldn’t be under the table!’

  She nodded, then laughed and, of course, we let them stay exactly where they were, sneaking bits of turkey to them when we each thought no one else was looking.

  Shadow and I stayed with Claire for three weeks and when we came home, after the first time I’d been away without Michael, I was glad I had Shadow with me so I wasn’t coming back to an empty house on my own.

  We enjoyed our meals together and in the evening, we liked to sit on the settee with the telly on or I’d read a book. Shadow sat beside me on his pillows and snoozed. Every now and then he’d throw himself against me for a cuddle and to remind me he was there. We’d got to know each other very well and could predict each other’s behaviour. If I got up to go to the kitchen, I knew Shadow would come with me. When we had visitors I’d put the day-to-day sofa covers away, and Shadow would know we were about to receive guests so he’d go to his bed, like a good boy.

  It didn’t always work in my favour. Whenever I put a nice outfit on, he’d know he wasn’t coming out with me. He’d slump in front of me, with his chin on his paws, and stare at me with those lovely brown eyes, as if to say, I’m not coming, am I?

  He was trying to guilt-trip me and it was hard not to feel it. Still, I’d tell him, ‘You’ll be a good boy for Mummy. I won’t be long.’

  When I returned, Shadow would have turned his bed upside-down and thrown all his pillows out. He’d have had a little tantrum because he didn’t like me going out without him. I came to expect it so, after a while, I accepted this was his behaviour and tidied up after him. Sometimes Shadow wouldn’t talk to me for a while but he’d soon get over it.

  Most places I went, Shadow came with me. He loved being in the car and seeing all my friends. One day, I put him in the car and drove to meet Claire and Wilma. We were in Biggleswade to lay a wreath at the grave of Mary Tealby, the incredible founder of Battersea Dogs & Cats Home.

  Shadow wore his Battersea coat with pride and I felt fit to burst as he sat down beside the memorial
and looked about him. With a dozen or so others, we paid tribute to a special lady. Claire said a few words and we said our own silent thanks to Mary for her love and devotion to animals: without her, I and several million other people, over 150 years, would never have had the pleasure of owning a Battersea animal – for the Home would not exist. It was a memorable moment and it felt wonderful to be a part of it. It was all because of Shadow that I’d even thought to join Claire on that unique trip.

  Shadow came into my home that wet Friday and, ever since, he’s brought me so much joy.

  I honestly believe when somebody is living alone like me and still has a lifetime of love to give, it’s the best thing in the world to have a little dog. I’m lucky that I have lots of friends and family, but many people don’t. When you have a dog, people stop and talk to you, even if you’re just sitting in the park enjoying the fresh air. I think Shadow was meant to come to me when he did. Without him, I don’t know how I would have coped with losing Michael.

  I know that we all have a shadow and usually we only see it in the sunshine, but my shadow has four legs, hardly any teeth and a curly tail. He’s been with me through the dark times and, with his enduring love, he’s brought me back to the light.

  13. A Date with Santa

  It was late July, and as the sun rose to its highest in the summer sky, I looked at the figure beside me and smiled. I was on holiday and my little girl was wearing an oversized sunhat and was snoozing peacefully on a deckchair. But that little girl was not my toddler daughter Lizzy: she was my West Highland Terrier, Jessie. While all the other dogs on the beach in Cornwall, our favourite holiday spot, were splashing about in the sea, Jessie refused to set foot on the sand. Instead, like a tiny human being, she sat dozing next to me on her chair.

  My husband, Wayne, and our son, Matthew, arrived back from a swim and both began laughing. ‘I see Jessie has the best seat, as always,’ Wayne said.

  Jessie was indeed a pampered pooch. Sometimes I reckoned she thought she was human. Whenever I fetched her lead for a walk, she’d go to the window and look outside. If it was sunny, she’d come to me and wait for me to clip the lead to her collar. If it was raining, she’d look at me as if to say, I’m not going out in that, and promptly return to her spot on the sofa.

  If we did manage to get her outside, she’d sit down in the middle of the pavement when she’d had enough and refuse to budge. Even when I said, ‘Come on, then, let’s go home,’ she wouldn’t move. I’d have to pick her up and carry her or she’d have stayed out there all night!

  I’d grown up with terriers and Jessie was our first family dog. She wasn’t a typical terrier, though. She wasn’t interested in playing and, if you threw a ball for her, or rolled it towards her to entice her to play, the look on her face said it all: I see the ball, Mum, and I’m not interested.

  But it was all those little quirks that we loved about her, especially me, and Jessie was very much my dog. She brought so much life into our home and Matthew and Lizzy adored her.

  When she was eight, I was the first to notice that Jessie was limping slightly.

  I took her straight to the vet and, after many tests and scans, she was found to have lesions on her brain caused by a virus. The vet told me, ‘We can manage her symptoms for now, Claire, but ultimately it will be fatal.’ She would have, at best, two years. It was devastating news.

  I took Jessie home and gave her the prescribed steroid medication twice a day. In time, she developed diabetes and we all learnt how to administer her injections, even Lizzy, who was eleven at the time.

  Jessie never complained or flinched. Even when she starting losing motor control, she didn’t whine when she slipped and cut her lip or stubbed her nose hard.

  Instead, she would fall asleep on the sofa every night and wait for me to find her. We had the same routine every night. I’d say, ‘Jessie, come on, girl, in your bed.’ But she wouldn’t make a move towards it. Instead, she would roll on to her back and stretch out with her legs in the air. She was like a baby waiting to be picked up. Jessie stayed there until I gave in and lifted her into her bed. I was happy to indulge her.

  We’d taken her in at five months old from a family who hadn’t wanted her, and I’d formed an instant bond that had deepened over time. Even though she was now eleven, she was still very much my baby. We’d been lucky that Jessie was never alone for more than an hour or two. Wayne was a postman, and when he came home in the early afternoon I left for my work as a part-time administrator.

  One evening, I gave Jessie her dinner and realized she couldn’t chew her food. I mashed it for her and waited for her to eat but still her mouth didn’t seem to be working properly. She was becoming confused, and when she began to shake, Wayne and I headed to the vet.

  When he examined her, his look was grave. ‘Jessie’s symptoms are because of her lesions and I’m afraid she’s only going to get worse.’

  I said: ‘Is there anything we can do?’

  He shook his head.

  I knew there was only one way forward but I was desperate for him to give me a different answer. ‘If this was your dog, what would you do?’

  ‘I’d have her put to sleep,’ he replied. ‘It’s the kindest thing when she is this unwell.’

  I looked at Wayne and he nodded. We had some time with Jessie and we said our goodbyes to her. We left the clinic an hour later, and my arms felt painfully empty. I had come to the vet hoping he would help Jessie to have a little more time with us, and now I was leaving without her.

  The house felt empty without her around, and I couldn’t bear to pack her things away. Every time I caught sight of her little bed and pink blanket, my chest ached.

  Every day when I came home from work, instead of having her little face appear behind the door as soon as I opened it, there was nothing.

  I told Wayne: ‘When I get home there’s nobody here.’

  He dealt with it as he always had – with an attempt to make me smile. ‘The kids are here when you get home. Maybe we can get Matthew to run up and down the stairs for you.’

  ‘You know what I mean,’ I said.

  ‘Of course I do, darling,’ he said gently. ‘So what shall we do?’

  ‘I don’t want to wait to get another dog,’ I said. ‘I want one now.’

  ‘Agreed.’

  We both wanted a rescue dog so I began looking at centres near our home in Essex. The only specification we had was that the dog was a terrier of some kind.

  They were so full of fun, and they looked at you with such intelligence – you couldn’t pull the wool over a terrier’s eyes.

  And I was a sucker for a sob story. If we found a dog with three legs and an eye missing in the local dog rescue, I would have been lost.

  A month passed and, unfortunately, there wasn’t anything suitable.

  As December arrived and the nights grew ever longer, we put up our Christmas tree and lit the fire. We went through the normal motions, but without Jessie wearing her Christmas jumper with a pudding on it, then huffing and puffing about the fireplace getting too warm, or ignoring the presents under the tree unless there was a treat in one, things didn’t feel right.

  On Christmas Eve, I hung our stockings by the fireplace, including Jessie’s because I didn’t have the heart to leave hers out. Then Wayne placed the final present under the tree. He turned to me and said: ‘That one’s for you.’

  ‘Unless it’s a dog, I don’t want to know,’ I said.

  He smiled. ‘It’s best that it’s not a dog because it’s been wrapped for two weeks!’

  Next morning, Wayne and I got up at six and Mum came over half an hour later. Before the day got under way, and hours before the kids were awake, we sat down for a cup of tea, a bacon sandwich and a catch-up.

  It was our second Christmas without my dad, Albert, and the first without Jessie. We were a bit subdued. The rest of the day passed for me in a muted blur, as though I was watching everything from inside a bubble. The dull ache of reality tha
t there was no Dad and no Jessie was kept just out of reach by the rest of the family at my side.

  Everywhere I went in the house I was reminded of Jessie. The red leather armchair by the window that she would perch on to stare out into the street still had a little dip and a crease from where she’d sat. In the garden, there was a little trail carved through the grass and into the shrubs: Jessie would always run down the same path when she’d spotted a squirrel at the back.

  After Christmas, I told Wayne: ‘I can’t take this. We have to find a dog.’

  It was then that I logged on to the Battersea Dogs & Cats Home website and looked through the list of animals waiting for a home. Days later, Wayne, the kids and I went to Battersea in London. We filled out a form and had an interview with a rehomer.

  I told her about our family and she had some questions too.

  What sort of dog would you like? If there was a physical problem with a dog, would you be willing to take it on?

  I said: ‘We made provision for Jessie all of her life, and we’re not scared of having to administer medicine or whatever else a dog might need. We’ll take care of it, always.’ Then I joked: ‘He can have three legs and one eye and I’ll happily take him home.’

  After the interview, we were shown around the kennels to see if there might be a dog we were interested in. I was excited, wondering if I’d find that chemistry, the moment when a little dog simply jumps straight into your heart, like Jessie had. But my experience was quite different. I found it upsetting to walk around Battersea, knowing I couldn’t give all those poor animals a home.

  Then we spotted a Jack Russell called Duffy. She was around three years old and very timid. When we stopped by her kennel, she wouldn’t leave her blanket or come towards us. I was thinking out loud when I said, ‘Bless her, she doesn’t look very happy, does she?’