The decision is made one unremarkable Sunday, along the water of Leith. “Do you really think we can manage,” C asks as a woman jogs past with a red setter at her side, six legs perfectly co-ordinated.
“There’s only one way to find out,” I reply wisely, for it’s easy to be wise about something that has not yet happened. A man strides ahead, his German shepherd stopping now and then to gaze back at him adoringly. All seems well in the world between (wo)man and dog. We have been companions for centuries after all. Why ever not?
Fast-forward two months to a remarkable Saturday. We are awaiting our new arrival: a dark brindle Staffordshire bull terrier cross, one year old, great with people and dogs, loves cuddles, walks and toys, goes by the name of Daphne. She is a rescue dog, saved hours before she was going to be destroyed at a pound. We are her rescuers, which sounds rather Victorian. In more modern dog-rescue society speak, we are going to be her forever home.
I’ve wanted a dog ever since Snoopy, the Ramaswamy pooch, died 15 years ago. All four of us watched as our beloved old boy lay on the living room floor and took his final few breaths, deep and long, saving the best for last. Pa Ramaswamy carried his little 17-year-old body downstairs, wrapped in a towel. The rest of us followed, remembering how much he hated to be carried. A shaky procession indeed. Later we wandered the streets in a daze, went for lunch at Café Rouge, rented a Woody Allen film from Blockbuster, were kind to each other in all sorts of small ways. That first taste of grief was so serious and real.
“Finally,” said Ma R when I told her that we were getting a dog. “You’ve been begging me for one for 30 years.” I decided, just this once, not to remind her that I’m no longer a pup tugging on her sari for a doggie but a fully-grown adult with a mortgage, ten grey hairs and – soon – a dog of her own.
“We have a dog in the family again,” announced Pa R, and if he could have wagged his tail he would. A much better response than the one I got ten years ago, when, after threatening to get a dog, Pa R said, “Don’t do it. They’re more responsibility than children. We should know. We had both.” I decided, just this once, not to remind him that a) a pet maybe shouldn’t come first in the responsibility stakes over actual children and b) he probably shouldn’t admit this to one of his actual children.
Anyway, enough of all this pawing at the past. Daphne is here, right now, and everything is different. She brings with her a strange new life of high voices, jeans stuffed with poop bags and 10pm walks in pyjamas. If I didn’t have my little companion, you might assume I had lost my mind.
So, yes, I am turning into a crazy dog lady who has liver cake in her pockets, paw prints on her backside and a copy of John Bradshaw’s In Defence of Dogs by her bed. And there really is madness in these first, sleep-deprived weeks. We’re dealing with crying at night, separation anxiety during the day and all the time the revelatory madness of responsibility. And yet, as I pull on my shoes to take Daphne out for a walk in the driving rain, I think, ‘This is it. Life is hard. This is what it is to be an adult – to take a dog out for a walk in the rain.’ And you know what? It’s wonderful.