Puppy Love

Something strange has happened to the women I know: the mothers I met at the nursery gate, the founding stalwarts of the baby sitting circle, the ones who’ve sold their buggies at the nearly-new sale and their cots on e-Bay. Women who eat lunch, get sleep, re-train. Women, that is, like me.

I’ve hit the big four five, half way to ninety. Out have gone fish fingers, parenting classes, jelly shoes, the hokey-cokey. No more combing hair for head lice or sticking stars on charts. No glue on the carpet or glitter on the cat. Hand-me-down clothes are now drainpipe jeans. You Tube is the new Bambi. My teenagers tweet and read Twitter not Biff and Chip. Tricycles rust unridden. They join Facebook groups not brownies and beavers. They shower not bath. I never see them naked. All too soon it will be student loan forms and no look back. The nest, though not quite empty, is feeling sparse.

But - there is a spate of new arrivals. First is Poppy, flaxen blond with big, seductive eyes. I gaze intently and deep down something stirs. Bella, next, is smaller, darker, satin-skinned. The older children bunch around her, all jostling for a cuddle. Archie, Django, Maggie, Meg – is that a tinge of the green-eyed monster? Surely not. I smile, make the right noises. No surprises here. Not on my watch.

But that was before Fergus. Fergus was family. He smelt of new sawdust and baby blanket and worked the room with his puppy dog eyes. We adults all bunched around, jostling for a cuddle.
Mary, my sister-in-law, was evasive.
“He’s for David really.”
Of course. David was retired, chasing seventy. It would get him out each day, be company now the girls were at school. But I have learnt the signs of a mother smitten. Deep down in me something stirred.


That’s when I get it. These canines have got canny. They’ve found our weak spot, our Achilles heel. Their disguises are in every shape and colour: whiskered, wiry terriers, silky collies, black labradors, pugs, poodles with wet noses, setters with long, crimpled ears.

Feed me, play with me, love ME the eyes all say. Those other ones, the humans, they’ll pack up and go. Look, their toys have already been forgotten but me, I could do with a ball, something to chase, a kick around in the garden. An old, squashy teddy, a slipper, a cheap rubber bone – I’m easily pleased, not faddy or fussy. I’ll eat all my food. And I could never ignore you. It’s just not in my nature, nor is slamming the doors or pouring scorn on your clothes; to me you look great. And won’t evenings feel good cuddled up on the sofa; you scratch my tummy and I’ll keep you warm. But, hey, if you want to go out I can look after myself - just leave me some water and I’ll wait by the window. Before long I’ll be your bosom pal, your biggest fan, your fiercest defender. And oh think of those walks – who’d disown YOU in public?

That sounds like a deal. Now the patter of tiny paws is heard here too. Hettie is small, black and tan, a cavalier, a one-walk-a-day dog. But give her a mile, she’ll take five. As I walk around the house she’s there behind me. We talk about the state of the country, my job, her favourite biscuit. She tells me when the postman is coming, the meter reader, the neighbour’s cat. And when we’re out together people stop us and coo; so pretty, a boy or a girl? I beam foolishly, feel pride. So I’m in the club - in the park, by the river, over the styles, with the other women with leads in their hands. Besotted. Which is yours, how old? (Is mine better behaved?)

And obedience classes, toilet training, ticks? A doddle, I’ve done it before. Sunday night, once more, is bath night. I get to brush her coat. One more photo for the album – look, how cute! My teenagers roll their eyes and shrug, play Dragonforce loudly, go back online.

What do you think, I muse to my partner, should we stop at one or not ……….?


NB: a dog is for life. He will not rifle through your purse, leave smelly jeans on the landing, roll up drunk or miss the last bus home. Dog owners get fitter, live longer and are never alone.