Handbags and Poobags: Tales of a Soho Boxer Dog (2 page)

Chapter 2: THE PICKING OF A PUP

When you’ve spent years as a virtually lawless, single girl about town the idea of getting of a dog is a definite gear change, and a very obvious one. Everyone had a comment to make: ‘
it’ll never last’
, ‘
that poor dog, he’ll have to be taken out for walks you know?
’ and ‘
does Soho House let dogs in?
’. And I got plenty of ‘
I assume you’ll be getting a Chihuahua, or one of those handbag dogs?
’ But despite the disparaging remarks, and my own reservations about my social life being over, we ploughed ahead with our search for the perfect pooch.

I had lots of literature we’d picked up from Discover Dogs and the internet is a great resource for choosing a suitable dog. Suitable: meaning one that will seamlessly fit into your life and require little change on your part. (Who am I kidding?) 

After plenty of discussion we settled on a Staffordshire Bull Terrier for the following reasons:

1. Reasonably small but not so small Patrick would be embarrassed walking him and I could probably dress him up and pick him up if I wanted to
   
2. Short coat which needs little upkeep
   
3. Playful (Patrick wanted a dog he could play ball with)
   
4. Affectionate without craving attention
   
5. Doesn’t need to run for hours a day
   

All good. We did discuss Boxer dogs because my family had traditionally kept them (my grandparents once owned a Boxer bitch they called Bonnie because she was so ugly) but we dismissed them on account of the drool, their size, the amount of exercise and attention they need and the general over the top bounciness. I knew I was going to have to take the dog in to the office most days of the week (the joy of owning your own company) and I couldn’t have a slathering beast running riot and grinning and gurning at everyone while we were trying to work. At this point yes, I was still trying to find the dog that would slot perfectly into our lives as they were right then.

Then one morning I got a phone call, it was Patrick:

“
We’re definitely getting a Boxer”.

“Oh, are we? Why?”

“I’ve just met the most gorgeous one in the street, we have to have one, she kissed me and she wasn’t drooly”,
he replied excitedly.

The fact he had been kissed by a friendly dog wasn’t a reason to change our plans, was it? Well we’d both been quite impetuous in our lives so maybe we should consider it. They certainly looked a bit more unusual than a Staffie (sorry to lovers of that beautiful, misunderstood breed) and I could probably cope with the larger size for an increase in dog status. I believed that a Boxer had more show-off points than perhaps a smaller breed. Oh dear, was it time to question our reasons for getting a dog again?

Once again we turned to the internet and found some accredited breeders with new puppies. We knew we wanted a male dog. Well, I did. Patrick would have loved a little princess bitch but I was adamant – there was only one princess in the house and that was me! 

We made a few speculative phone calls. One woman put the phone down on me the second I told her we lived in London. She wouldn’t even consider letting us see her litter. I hadn’t even started on my spiel about being in a stable relationship, having a garden and spacious flat, being able to take our new dog to work so he wouldn’t be left alone for hours, blah blah blah. Disheartened I left a few messages here and there and thought no more about it.

My 33
rd
birthday was coming up and we were planning a party. I had one every year, I like to mark the passing of time. The year before had been fantastic, Patrick and I had got together that very night and so it was also our one year anniversary coming up, (something to celebrate indeed). Thoughts of getting a dog were pushed to the back of my mind. Maybe I believed it never would really happen.

Then, two weeks before my birthday I received a phone call from a farm in Northamptonshire. They had one male pup left. He was a brindle, which essentially means stripy, with little white socks. Now I had my heart set on a red coloured dog as I wasn’t a fan of brindle but that heart started beating a little faster and I immediately called Patrick:

“
We need to go to Northamptonshire tomorrow there’s a puppy he’s the only one left he has small white socks and we need to go and see him tomorrow before he goes he’s in Northamptonshire which isn’t very far I know he’s a brindle and I didn’t want a brindle really but we should go and see him anyway
” I garbled down the phone without pausing for breath.

“
Calm down. Don’t get your hopes up. You are not meant to buy the first puppy you see
!” The voice of reason explained.

“
Of course we can go and see him if you like but there is no way you will come home with him, so what’s the point? Maybe we should continue to wait for more suitable pups closer to home?”

I took a breath. Of course he was right. If I was prepared to hold on a red Boxer pup would turn up eventually closer to home. We decided to wait.

So the next morning we found ourselves motoring up the M1 on our way to Northamptonshire, grinning madly. We talked in the car about my impending birthday celebrations and how there was no way we would be able to pick up a puppy today because we both needed to go to the party – we had joint friends by now and it wasn’t only my birthday but our first anniversary. No, we couldn’t have a puppy now, it just wasn’t practical, it certainly didn’t fit into our immediate social diary.

We drove the Porsche, a lovely sporty, black convertible (a Boxster funnily enough) and caused a bit of a stir as we pulled into the drive alongside the huge farm vehicles.  I’m sure the couple who made their way towards us clocked us as ‘city types’, but they welcomed us in.

We were led to a caravan on site and inside we found a few puppies rolling around on the floor with some children. Everyone was chewing everyone else and hair and fur were flying. I almost shuddered as I breathed in the hairy air and imagined the state of my clothes as I gingerly sat down to discuss the puppies.

“
This one’s yours
” said the woman, and she pulled a tiny scrap of furry bones out of the melee and handed it to me. Something warm and smelly and scratchy struggled against my chest for two seconds before relaunching itself into the skirmish on the floor and skittering away.

“He’s a littl’un sadly, his sisters took all the milk and food, so he’s not really grown a lot
” she continued. “
He also likes biting hair”

Looking closer it was obvious the darkest pup was smaller than the rest of the larger red bitches who were decidedly chunky. I immediately felt sorry for this little brave boy, belittled and bullied by his sisters, but gamely playing on in what amounted to a continuous canine affray.

“
His kennel name is Fletch’s Flyer
” she continued. Yes well, that would have to change, I thought.

Patrick was standing in the corner, and despite the almost visible shake of the head and disapproving look I knew he wouldn’t be able to leave him behind either. We were falling prey to everything you are told not to – don’t feel sorry for the puppy, don’t go for the smallest one, don’t take the first one you see.

I tried to regain control of the situation.

“Can we see his mother?
” I asked. I knew this to be an important part of the process and although I wasn’t sure what it was meant to achieve I was proud of myself. The woman shrugged but agreed, she obviously didn’t know what it would achieve either. We were led to some grassland. I was rather disgruntled as I was wearing new ballet pumps and hadn’t counted on stomping through muddy fields.

Behind a barbed wire fence were two completely different dogs, a big grey one and a small black one. The grey was incredibly large and scary looking, as he eyed us up and curled his lip we were thankful for the fencing between us. His huge wet chops hung down glistening with drool and anger.

“
That must be Dad”
I said unhelpfully. “
He’s a big boy”

Patrick nervously gripped my shoulders, I could tell he was inches away from yanking me out of the mud and back into the car and civilisation. Next to Dad was a small, squat bitch who looked sadly through the wire at us. Maybe she knew we had come to take one of her offspring, maybe she was just miserable at having Brute as her mate? I would have been if I had been her.

“They’ve both got Crufts winners in their bloodline”
we were informed pleasantly by our host. I couldn’t imagine anything further from that glamorous dog event than this windswept joyless field but I nodded in agreement. In fact, I couldn’t imagine anything more miserable than living on this cold farm, but that’s just me.

“
OK we’ll take him
” Before the words were out of my mouth I knew it was a mistake but that was it, he was ours and the sooner we got him out of there and home the better. I was worried about what would happen to a worthless runt on a farm in middle-England and thought he would enjoy his life far better in our comfortable home than being bullied in that caravan. I knew Patrick was in agreement, I just knew it.

We scooped up this little scrap of puppy, were given some certificates, a bag of feed and a little basket for him to travel home in, and after hastily dashing off a cheque for a large amount of money in return, we were off. What had we done? What indeed? I had a birthday party coming up! And I was willing to bet that the bar I had booked didn’t allow dogs in? But it was too late now, we were suddenly dog owners…

Chapter 3: THE SHOCK OF THE NEW

The thing about having a dog, as opposed to any other animal, is that it highlights what you have that others (especially if you live in London) might not – such as a garden, larger accommodation, a live in partner, time and money on your hands and the possibility of a family in your near future. It’s like the first rung on the ladder of that elusive status – being settled. So were we settled? Not for a long time.

After whining at being separated from his family, and being sick on the beautiful cream leather interior (it was his first journey in a car after all) our new pup eventually curled into a tiny ball in my lap and fell into a restless sleep. Our drive home was fraught, full of recriminations at our actions but also full of delight at this living creature cradled in my arms. It was a huge rush and mixture of emotions, we kept smiling at each other but not sure of the consequences of what we had done. Was our home ready? Were
we
ready? Could we keep him alive?

“Well, that’s it. We’ve done it now”
said Patrick
. “We’ll need to pick up some food and call the vets straight away”

“Why?”
I answered.
“What’s the matter with him?”
Had Patrick’s eagle eyes spotted some problem that I hadn’t?

“Probably nothing but we need to get him registered and he’ll need various puppy pills and injections”.

Oh and so here it was, the mundane, the problems, the logistics, the normality and every day of pet ownership. The important things that I put to the back of my mind when I imagined my dog and I frolicking in a sunny park or strolling around Primrose Hill looking for a spot for lunch. I really needed to grow up and get a grip of reality!  Patrick smiled at me, maybe he thought it was time I needed to grow up too and what was snoozing in my lap was going to help me do it.  He leant over to stroke the top of the pup’s head and then he stroked mine too. Thankfully I wouldn’t need to do it alone.

We tried to introduce our gangly, new charge gently to his new home. I carried him in and kept him on my lap with some cloth we had taken from the farm that would smell familiar (which meant terrible). He kept whining. I imagine he felt very lonely, even though his sisters seemed like mean bitches they were the only family he had and I am sure he was wondering where they were. 

When he was put on the floor he immediately had a wee, which we expected, that was fine. In fact he couldn’t take more than a few steps without having a wee. He also couldn’t take more than a few steps without having a little sleep. He was largely uninterested in food.  His tiny legs were as slim as pencils and he smelt awful. We hovered round him like buzzing parental flies trying to ascertain his every need, before he even knew what it was.

The three of us spent our first nervous night under the same roof together and I don’t think any of us got any decent sleep. Puppy slept huddled between us, with all of us waking every hour as he whimpered and scrabbled around. This wouldn’t do at all.

The next day we bought him his own little bed – a soft brown corduroy pouch that fitted in with our bedroom décor brilliantly. But after many nights of me trying to sleep with one foot hanging out of my bed and into his (so he had something warm and alive to sleep up against) he was still crying and fretting. Our new dog obviously hated sleeping alone. He was eventually hoisted back onto the bed between us and where that dog sleeps is still a bone of contention in our home to this day!

When a puppy is that young, ours was just 12 weeks old when we picked him up, they can’t be left alone. Also, and I hadn’t known this before (talk about going in with your eyes open) they can’t step out on public ground before they have had their final puppy jabs in case of disease. Which meant we had to go through two months of carrying and driving him everywhere.  So Patrick and I were on constant pup-sitting duty.

There wasn’t a moment when one of us couldn’t be indoors with him and we began to feel the strain almost immediately as we tried to divide up the normal tasks of food shopping and going to work. Forget about going out for drinks!

As he was unable to go on the bus to work we started racking up huge costs in those first few months on the congestion charge for driving the three of us into central London and parking in Soho every day. And if you have ever negotiated the roads through the Capital during rush hour you will know just how much this stressed us out having to drive in every day.

But the strain just wasn’t financial. We were used to our freedom and being able to do whatever we wanted whenever we wanted and had never even really checked in with each other. Now our lives were all about plans and timetables and organising ourselves so that someone was on dog duty at all times, it was rather like military planning, taking both jobs and the car into account. I felt myself wanting to rebel already , in my head I was positive that although having a dog was going to change my life it wasn’t going to change my lifestyle, which was incredibly naïve of me. I set about planning my birthday party again knowing full well that Patrick wouldn’t be able to attend now, but as long as I could still go out then I’d know little had changed.

The big night dawned and I met my usual crowd in a lovely Soho bar. I was dressed up, I was in heels, I had checked myself for dog hair and I didn’t smell of wee. The cocktails started lining the bar and life was good. Most people wanted to ask questions about our new acquisition but conversation quickly moved on to more gossipy topics, work, friends and the like, everything I normally liked discussing. But I found I wanted to extend the conversations about the puppy, I kept showing off little pictures I had of his tiny face on my mobile phone, even to the barman at one stage. I imagined Patrick at home playing with him, cuddling him and eventually getting into bed and I knew I would rather be at home. I even turned to one of my best friends and howled “
I can’t believe I am here with you when I could be at home with my dog
”. Things had definitely changed whether I liked it or not. Or had I changed? Whatever, the party was most definitely over and we all headed home before midnight. Unheard of.

Having a tiny scrap of a pup around the home was suddenly delightful and his little ways and exploits where hysterical to us. We have hundreds of photos of him from this time he was so small and cute. But he was so small that I lost him in the house one day. I couldn’t find him anywhere. I raced around calling to him and looking in cupboards, running up and down the stairs. In my panic I nearly slipped on a pile of washing that was sitting on the bottom step, this toppling of clothes revealed a tiny puppet face nestling in amongst the knickers, he had burrowed into the clean laundry and I had nearly stomped on him!

The battle to ease our young charge into his new surroundings continued and he soon regained some of the early spark that we had seen in the chaotic caravan of his birth (he even started chewing my hair which I took as a good sign). Maybe he would start to think of this as his home and us as his parents? Patrick and I certainly now considered ourselves as such.

We were also engaged to be married…