On dog ownership
After a tricky few months, I thought I’d write about dog ownership and why they’re such a defining part of who I am. I also trail why Caroline and I will be covering 1,501km on foot this autumn...
This past weekend, another grown man and I sobbed uncontrollably and embraced for what would, in most circumstances, have been an uncomfortably long time. The reason? His six-year-old dog, Bonnie, had to be put to sleep last week. He, his partner and Bonnie had been an inseparable trio. He was broken and I was crying before I even saw him and walked in his direction holding a card. I knew, from all too recent experience, just how he felt.
Now, you will either get this or you won’t. Some of you will probably be in tears, or close to tears, thinking of a lost pet, some will understand but stoically keep the British stiff upper, but others will think I’m absolutely bonkers and some sort of weak specimen as a result. Of course, a few people will be wondering where the pylons, substations, interconnectors and solar farms are and closing their laptops. Apologies, I did say this would be wide ranging but they will be back soon.
I didn’t have a dog growing up. We were a cat and guinea pig household. My mum wasn’t really a dog person back then and, until I was ten, she was a single parent. Then, when she remarried, another four children and an additional cat arrived. Understandably, a dog was out of the question. She will be the first to confess she is now a fan of two of our dogs, Rufus and Claude, who she affectionately refers to as her granddogs (she discovered the term on a trip to California). I’m not quite sure how I feel about the status afforded to them, it’s at once endearing but also a reminder I’ve yet to provide her with a grandchild. In any case, they’ve won her over. Dogs tend to do that.
Back in the dim and distant, I’ve memories of my grandparents’ dog, Baska the Basset Hound. I say memories, they are the sort of memories that one thinks exists but may just be the product of old family photos, I’ve still one framed of me and said Basset in the bedroom. But those memories – real or not – tell me I was very fond of the old hound. When my grandparents replaced Baska, who eventually moved to live on another farm (a strange decision and one I’m now sceptical about), with a disappointing looking black cat, I punished them when I was given the naming privileges. I was very young, yet to develop the family conservatism, and decided that given Arthur Scargill was often on the television screen and miners were covered in soot, it was simply logical that the cat, who also looked like he’d been down a mine, should be named after Mr Scargill. My grandfather was unimpressed, but a deal was a deal. It remains the most left-wing act of my life.
Dogless years followed until, when my mum remarried, I became rather unsettled at home and spent a good deal of my time with a retired businessman in the village, Pete Bailey. I’ll write more about Pete and how he helped snap me out of introspection and underachievement but, for now, it suffices to say Pete had a dog, Jodie. Jodie was a Springer Spaniel and an absolute handful, but she was my first proper experience of something close to dog ownership and loss. When Pete had to have her put to sleep, he did so without warning me – probably knowing I’d try to talk him out of it. I was young, impetuous, and had no idea then what he was going through. I didn’t speak to him for a couple of weeks. Looking back now, a few months after having to have a dog put to sleep for the first time, I’m wracked with guilt over how I treated someone who gave me so much. Pete lived alone and Jodie was his sole companion. Jodie was my first true experience of the light pet ownership, particularly dog ownership, can bring to people’s lives and how important they can be to independent living. Dogs give structure, exercise and companionship – all things that keep us healthier for longer. Looking back, Pete – who for reasons of his own failing health didn’t get another dog – was never quite the same after that.
My own first dog, Rufus, is now into his eighteenth year. Harking back to memories of Baska, I wanted a Basset Hound but one wasn’t suited to a three-storey townhouse in Bury St Edmunds, so I arrived at a similarly sausage shaped miniature dachshund. They can’t use stairs either, so in hindsight, he wasn’t the best choice, but he’s been a fixture in my life ever since. As have stairgates. The first time the Google Street View car visited the town’s medieval grid, I was walking him - for years we were on the images for half the roads in the town centre. He’s seen me through most of my adult life, several failed relationships, starting my career working for MPs, the death of my brother and my best friend, and a parliamentary campaign. Three slipped discs, two back surgeries and some very big vet bills later, he’s still here and as determined as ever to stay here. When he entered his eleventh year, I decided he needed a younger brother to keep him sprightly, so Claude, another miniature dachshund arrived on the scene
When Caroline and I met, in 2019, one of the many things that helped us click was that she was a dog lover too. Dog owners get other dog owners. She had two Cypriot rescue dogs, Freedom and George. The thing about rescue dogs is that they tend to come with a name and it seems rude to change them, I’ll come to this point again in a moment. Now, two separate two-dog households doesn’t seem that outlandish, does it? We would meet for walks, visit each other with our dogs, it all worked rather well. Then covid hit. Opting, as many new couples did, to live together rather than not see each other for months, my two-dog house in Bury St Edmunds was suddenly a four-dog house. Nor have I yet mentioned my two cats and Caroline’s two rabbits. We were officially, and quite accidentally, those crazy people who had passed through what was a sensible pet threshold into a zone where your pets are how other people define you.
In 2020, we gained Velvet, another rescue dog from Cyprus. Like Freedom and George, she came from a shelter Caroline found on a trip there, Dog Valley. Velvet was initially intended as a foster to rehome project. Caroline had done this several times, but I couldn’t part with her and she became dog number five. At this point, it became clear that however lovely the house in Bury St Edmunds was, it did not work for five dogs, two cats and two rabbits. My neighbours who were incredibly tolerant throughout will probably attest to that. The house went on the market after some refurbishment and, to keep it looking good, we all upped sticks first to Caroline’s house in Stowmarket and then on to her dad’s, while it sold and we found something suitable back towards Bury.
All of this is a convoluted way of me saying we built our lives and made big life choices around our pets. From the choice of house, dominated by the size of garden and how it could be fenced, through to the sacrifices we made financially to do so. They were and remain the defining factor in most decisions. I’m holding back from saying ‘like children’ because I’m acutely aware that a big failing of mine, whenever a friend speaks about their child, is – when trying to relate – to give an example of something one of the dogs has done. It rarely washes but, hey, at least their children can wash the car, do the vacuuming and may eventually go to university. Rufus, on the other hand, is still here eating me out of house and home eighteen years later. Of course, like any parent, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
When my friend and I sobbed and embraced in the garden on Saturday, I knew how he felt because in May, Caroline and I had to have dog number six, Mr Shy, put to sleep. Mr Shy was another rescue dog from Dog Valley and the unluckiest of souls. He was their longest tenant, at seven years. I believe George was the prior record holder. Shy’s name had been earned, he trusted very few people, and one look at his big soulful eyes, in the image Caroline sent me, told me we had to help him. He arrived with us in March, two days after our wedding – we didn’t have a honeymoon, we rescued another dog. Within two weeks, we knew something was wrong. Mr Shy was diagnosed, after many tests, with lymphoma and despite amazing care from Dick White Referrals, only lasted six weeks. He had finally found a home, after many years searching, and fell asleep here.
None of this was the fault of Dog Valley. Before sending a dog a huge number of checks and blood tests are done. He was passed fit to fly by a vet and was, on paper, a healthy dog. Our vets and Dick Whites said the same thing, unless you knew to run an MRI – and there were no triggers to do so – there was no way of knowing he was sick. Mr Shy was just very unlucky, or maybe he was the luckiest dog – he spent seven years waiting for a home and got to experience what one was like, rather than spending his whole life in a shelter. Those big sorrowful eyes attracted me for a reason. When we said goodbye to him we were broken. The decision to have him put to sleep, after he suddenly lost the use of his legs, was so hard. When he left us, my thoughts flashed back to Pete and Jodie, and how I behaved, and more guilt washed over me. We spend our lives becoming the person the younger version of ourselves needed and, for me, this was one of those moments.
Now, nearly three months later, we don’t regret adopting Shy. Despite the expense and the heartache, I’d do it all again tomorrow. So please don’t let it put you off either. There is nothing quite like adopting a rescue dog. Velvet arrived with us as quite the project, untrusting and fearful, but now the loyalty she shows us – and the affection she shows other people – is so rewarding. If you don’t want a challenge like Velvet, shelters and charities can advise you on the best dog for you and your home. In fact, to make sure you’re compatible, there will be far more forms and possibly home inspections than if you were going out to buy a puppy!
There are far too many dogs in need of help here and in Cyprus, Romania and Turkey in particular. The treatment of street dogs by the government in some countries, particularly those three, is quite appalling. If you travel there, or speak to an official from one of those countries, be sure to mention it. All the good work is done by private shelters and some governments are even making it harder for those to operate, instead trying to rely on municipal ‘kill shelters’. It’s a heartbreaking plight not just for the dogs but also for the volunteers at shelters like Dog Valley, who work so hard to rescue the animals.
At the start of this entry, I mentioned an epic task. Since being founded, nine plus years ago, Dog Valley have rescued and rehomed over 1,500 dogs, many of them to homes here in the UK. Recently, they have been told that their landlord wants to sell the land where the shelter is located. He has, however, offered them first refusal on the land. So, between now and March, they need to raise a substantial amount of money – 200,000 Euros. While there are many good causes closer to home that I’ve supported previously, and I will come to another of those in a moment, Dog Valley are an incredible volunteer run organisation in a country where being a stray dog is unforgiving.
Therefore, between 15 September and 1 November, Caroline and I will be covering 1,501km (932 miles) on foot between us – running, walking and hiking to raise money for Dog Valley. For me, it will culminate in the final week with covering the breadth of Suffolk, making my way from Newmarket to Southwold across approximately 101km (62 miles) non-stop, on foot. We’ve chosen 1,501km as it’s a kilometre for each dog they’ve saved so far.
While on the subject of dogs, and pet ownership, I wanted to mention another Suffolk based charity. Earlier, I recalled how Pete benefited from the companionship Jodie provided and how lost my friend and his partner felt after Bonnie’s death. A couple of years ago, Caroline became involved with volunteering for Our Special Friends. I mustn’t call them a ‘dog charity’, they are far broader than that. In short, they help people continue to benefit from animal companionship by providing physical and emotional support during illness, bereavement or other crises.
The importance of this cannot be understated, imagine someone struck down by a debilitating illness suddenly unable to walk their dog and, therefore, at risk of losing it. Or someone isolated in a community, in need of some gentle exercise and a visit from a volunteer with their own dog. Our Special Friends help in these circumstances and more, including bereavement and sourcing, introducing and monitoring a new pet for people. They are a triaging and signposting resource, a bit like Citizens Advice, that act as an early warning for social services. They too, rely entirely on fund raising. If you’re unfamiliar with them, please do look at their website and consider donating.
I will speak and post more about our fundraising for Dog Valley in the coming weeks; a Facebook page where you can sponsor us, if you wish, and watch video updates will soon be live. Of course, I’ll also be writing a lot more political and energy related posts, which – I imagine – will be rather more controversial than this one.
Thank you for indulging this pet focused entry and please stay tuned!
Hi Richard, thank you again for meeting us on Thurs. We will sadly loose our dog walk if NG gets their way! We have a little parson terrier, Pippa and she loves her morning walks down to the chestnut. A great thing you are doing for Dog Valley.
Loved to read your story, totally get it, we have a dog too. Only one though, who we all love dearly.