The Puppy That Came for Christmas (10 page)

After giving Emma her lunch and settling her down, I left for the hospital, feeling much more positive than I had in months. I found a good spot in the hospital car park and went up to the all-too-familiar, all-too-crowded waiting room. The ticket machine spewed out a number—99. It was going to be a long wait.

I sighed and stared down at my tummy. Ian and I had put on a lot of weight since getting together. In fact, I thought, I looked so fat that people must think I'm pregnant already. The flab seemed to gather high up, under my bust, although it was likely that it was evenly spread and just bulged upward when I sat down. Looking at it, I really wished I were pregnant. I wanted it so badly. When 99 finally flashed up, I picked up my handbag and went in to greet the nurses who ran the clinic. It seemed to take ages for enough blood to fill the test tube to come out, and it hadn't got any less painful than last time, but, at last, it was over, and the nurse who'd taken the blood told me to expect the results at my GP's by the following Thursday.

 

The results, when they came through, were not good.

“There, there, it's all right, don't cry,” Dr. Boston said as she handed me tissues number three, four, five and six.

But I couldn't help it.

“It's just I was . . . I was . . . so hoping,” I sobbed. “It's not like . . . I'm very happy, I have a lovely husband, a cute puppy, you should see her. Only I'd have liked . . .”

Dr Boston nodded and took my hand. “Maybe you should contact that IVF clinic sooner rather than later,” she said.

My relationship with Queenie, Jamie's pet German Shepherd, consisted of me avoiding her and her ignoring me and, so far, this had worked out well for both of us. Queenie was the alpha dog of the group: huge, and with her long glossy coat, every inch the queen of the Helper Dogs center. She gruffly tolerated the tiny puppies and could bring herself every now and then to approve of some of the male dogs, but she hated the females. If she thought they needed reminding of this, or bringing into line for any number of things, she told them so in no uncertain terms.

Queenie would usually be tied up to the wall by the time we arrived, and all the Helper Dogs trainees would join her, tethered to posts around the hall with a chew or a toy to distract them while the puppy parents drew chairs into a circle and discussed progress in the center of the room. Learning how to wait patiently was an important part of the training, as, in their professional roles, the dogs would often be called upon to sit quietly for hours, perhaps under the desk at their partner's office. The more obedient they were, the more likely they'd be tolerated and even welcomed in all the public situations where their help was really needed. Keeping the puppies tied up in the room also helped with their advanced training: at Helper Dogs HQ, they'd have to sit and wait their turn before being put through their paces individually by their trainer, and it appreciably shortened their training time if they watched the other dogs performing the tasks expected of them first.

But of course, as a learning experience, it was very hard for the bouncy small puppies. They didn't know the reason they were being tethered to the wall, and they often let their puppy parent and everyone else know they didn't think much of this treatment by whining or barking loudly. To remedy the bad behavior it was usually sufficient to praise them when they were quiet and to ignore their outbursts—standard Helper Dogs procedure—but sometimes something more was required, and Jamie would take the dreaded bark collar out of the cupboard when he could stand the noise no longer. This was something he'd borrowed from the obedience classes, and it didn't hurt the dogs; however, whenever the dog barked, a small box on the collar let off a citrus smell, an odor that was a hundred times more pungent to their sensitive noses than to ours. Dogs didn't like it, and I hated it.

Once, when Emma was young and Jo wasn't around to look after her during my hospital visit, I dropped her off at the center instead. Yvonne, a new puppy parent, took the leash from me when I got there and led her into an obedience class. Jamie promised to look after her for the rest of the morning's classes if I was delayed. All morning, as my waiting time stretched out ahead of me, and each appointment got moved back, I didn't fret because I knew she was in good hands. I just took a deep breath and thought about my Emma to take my mind off the unpleasant tests I was waiting to undergo.

When I returned to the training center, I was horrified to see her lying cramped in a crate built for the very youngest of puppies, looking very sorry for herself and wearing the bark collar.

“I'm sorry,” apologized Jamie. “She just wouldn't be quiet and she was disrupting all the other classes. I had to do it.”

I felt physically sick as I took the seemingly huge collar off her little neck.

“I'm so sorry,” I whispered into her fur. I'd never have left her if I'd thought for one second it wasn't going to be a pleasurable experience for her.

From then on even the sight of the bark collar made her unhappy. Some puppies, on the other hand, never experienced the bark collar. They were either too clever, too obedient or simply too dopey. It was completely alien to Elvis, who didn't mind sitting on his blanket and being tethered, and never barked to show his displeasure once during the whole time I knew him. He'd just chew his chew and then lie down and fall fast asleep.

Another lesson Emma had to learn the hard way was to respect her elders and betters. For some reason she didn't register that Queenie's growls and snarls meant it was a good idea to keep away from her. Uncharacteristically, we'd arrived early at the class one day, and I was chatting away to Jamie while we waited for the other dogs to arrive. Emma was now five months old and was well behaved enough to wander around without a lead on—or so I thought. From behind my back I suddenly heard a large, gruff bark, and a menacing rumble from the back of Queenie's throat. My head snapped round and I saw Emma right in front of Queenie, much too close for my liking and definitely too close for Queenie's. She was telling the pup as clearly as possible to clear out of her personal space, but Emma wasn't listening. Another growl came, more forcefully, but Emma just rolled on her back to show her tummy, as if to say: “I'm just a little puppy girl, please don't hurt me”—but not, as Jamie explained to me later, in the proper submissive way she should have been. Queenie was getting really cross. She was just about to lunge when Jamie and I interposed, grabbing Emma and pushing Queenie back. In my arms, Emma wagged her tail and licked my face, oblivious to the danger she'd been in, whereas my heart was pounding and I was trembling.

In the class after the Queenie incident we practiced for a Helper Dogs demonstration day, which had been organized for the following week to show the dogs off to the people who lived near the center. Each dog was demonstrating a different Helper Dog skill that they could perform for their owners. One dog was to pick up and bring the post, another to find and bring slippers; Emma's task was to locate and bring back a mobile phone; Eddie was going to remove a hat and scarf from someone sitting in a wheelchair, and poor old Elvis was supposed to be carefully pulling off his puppy parent's shoes and socks.

Some trainers from the head office came to watch us practice. They seemed pleased with the way the dogs' training was progressing. They watched carefully, taking notes for the duration, and gave a little talk at the end in which they said how impressed they were by the standards at the new center. Then, the Helper Dogs head trainer reeled off a list of dogs who were almost ready to move on. I listened in horror as Emma's name came up, right near the top of the list. The sound of it hung heavy in the still air of the room, and I couldn't quite believe it had actually been said. Emma and Eddie had progressed so fast and so well that they were a credit to the Guide Dog Association that had provided them.

It felt as if someone, somewhere, had made a mistake and three and a half months of my life, the happiest I'd ever had, were about to be taken away from me.

“What about Elvis?” asked Jo. Elvis, though from a different litter, was in the same intake and was therefore about the same age as Eddie and Emma. He was asleep in a pile in the corner of the room, snoring and blissfully unaware that he was being spoken about.

“Needs a bit more time” was the reply.

I wished that Emma needed more time. I wished that she needed lots and lots of time. Forever would be perfect.

 

Elvis, in fact, never did end up being a Helper Dog. Around forty percent of the dogs that begin their training don't complete it, for a variety of reasons. With some, like a dog I'd met called Sophie, it becomes clear early on that they're not naturally suited to being a successful Helper Dog. Sophie was a very assertive pup who, while very good at home with her puppy parent in a one-to-one situation, found it very hard to concentrate in the much noisier and exciting environment of the puppy classroom. She barked continuously when tethered and would bite through her lead and be off racing around the room if ignored for any length of time. Helper Dogs made every attempt to turn this around, but it wasn't to be, and her parent was allowed to keep her forever as a pet.

Others were too attached to their puppy parent to be successfully placed. Dylan, Emma's playmate whose wobbly long legs and dark coat made him look like Bambi, fell totally and hopelessly in love with his puppy parent, Julia. He'd gaze longingly at her and follow her everywhere around the house and once, when he was still a small puppy, he'd placed himself between her and a noisy abusive drunk when they'd been out for a late evening walk. He was devoted and would have laid down and died for her if she'd asked him. So devoted that Jamie became concerned; a Helper Dog must be able to work with a variety of people, and Dylan only had eyes for Julia. He'd get anxious if he couldn't keep her in sight, and begin whining and crying if she was away too long.

Jamie organized afternoons and classes where Dylan would be alone, in an attempt to lessen the bond, but Dylan couldn't do it, and classes became impossible for him. Then Jamie placed him temporarily with another puppy parent, but all Dylan wanted to do was be with Julia. It was very hard for Julia too. She already suffered from depression and had recently been diagnosed with cancer, and was increasingly relying on Dylan for companionship and support. I felt that Dylan sensed all of this and was upping the love he was giving in response.

It was a difficult time for them both and it put Helper Dogs in a tricky position. On the one hand, I could see that Jamie and Frank both liked Julia and felt for her, and wanted to do all they could to help—in the same way that they were sensitive to my hospital visits and did their best to help me with Emma when I needed it. Yet, on the other hand, Dylan was an expensive asset for them, a good-natured, intelligent puppy that had so much potential to enrich a disabled person's life, and their first duty was to the charity and the people waiting for dogs. I could see that every time the pair came to the center the situation was only going to get more complicated. I raised the subject with Jamie, but he just gave me an agonized look and shrugged his shoulders as if to say, “Your guess is as good as mine.” Eventually, it was decided to send Dylan off to an experienced trainer with six dogs of her own who lived far out in the countryside.

I didn't see Dylan leave and could only imagine how utterly heartbreaking it must have been for Julia. For Dylan it went from bad to worse. All of a sudden he was one of seven dogs, and so was receiving much less attention than Julia had lavished upon him and less forbearance than Jamie and Frank had shown. So Dylan went on strike. He refused to take any part in the advanced training classes and stopped eating properly. He was given time off class to adjust, only he didn't. He ran away more than once and then cut his leg badly trying to jump out of an upstairs window. That was the final straw, and the powers that be convened a meeting. Julia, who was by that point in remission, asked if she could take him back as her pet. Helper Dogs agreed and asked her to train him as a demonstration dog.

Demonstration dogs are a crucial asset to the charity, the public face that spreads the word about the charity's good work. A fully trained Helper Dog may occasionally give a demonstration with its disabled partner, but the bulk of the publicity work is done by demonstration dogs who live with able-bodied people, who take them to fêtes, schools, clubs and old-people's homes—anywhere they're invited to—to raise awareness and much-needed cash.

So Dylan got to go home with Julia, where he belonged.

As for Elvis, it was clear to Jo, Jamie and Frank that he was heading for an F in his exams, so Jo agreed that he be placed with a handler who'd won obedience competitions at Crufts for some intensive training. The problem—and Jo must have known it deep down—was that obedience wasn't the issue. Elvis was perfectly obedient; he simply wasn't very bright and never really a hundred percent sure what it was he was supposed to be doing.

He was so amiable and hardworking that Helper Dogs thought he might be able to be a hearing dog, and Hearing Dogs for the Deaf did give him a fair try, before regretfully declining him because he was just too big and boisterous. Then Elvis tried out for the police, but wasn't right for them, either. He was far too friendly for some police jobs but was very tenacious when asked to find things. Maybe he could be a bomb dog? After a short trial the bomb unit sent him back. Elvis was good at seeking out and locating suspicious packages, but he was also far too good at picking them up and bringing them back to his handlers: bomb dogs are supposed to sit by the “bomb,” and are at all costs not meant to touch it, so this was not exemplary bomb dog behavior.