I sat down on the sofa and stared across the room at my husband, John, willing him to change his mind. We’d been debating something important for months now and I could tell we were on the home stretch. ‘Come on, John, let’s get Ali a kitten. She’s eleven now and I know she’ll do a great job taking care of it.’
Our two daughters, Shelley, fourteen, and Alison, had never wanted for anything apart from a pet cat and now, as Christmas loomed ever closer, I hoped John would agree to grant Ali her wish.
‘But what about when we go on holiday, Irene? It’s not fair to leave the cat somewhere else for days on end.’
I told him we’d ask a neighbour to cat-sit, or we’d find the best cattery in town. ‘Please, John,’ I said. ‘Ali’s been pining for a pet to call her own for years now. I think she’s ready.’
‘Well, it would be good for her to have that responsibility,’ he conceded.
A smile began to form on his face but it didn’t begin at his lips. As the corners of his sparkly blue eyes crinkled, I knew I had him.
‘Oh, all right, then,’ he said. ‘It probably is about time.’
We set about planning. Ali loved watching Bagpuss on the television and dreamt of having a big tomcat. I searched and searched but nothing was quite right. Weeks later, I heard from friends of a three-month-old short-haired silver kitten in desperate need of a loving home.
Soon I was able to pick her up and drove straight to my sister-in-law Jeannie’s house. We’d decided to call her Holly because it was nearly Christmas. Holly was shaking like a leaf and to comfort her I placed her next to Toby, Jeannie’s tiny King Charles Cavalier puppy. They curled up on the sofa against each other and fell asleep.
I knew Holly was in safe hands for the next week at Jeannie’s house, so I prepared our home for her arrival. I bought a cat bed, collar and food, and stashed them in the garage. Only John would brave the biting December cold to potter around in there – it was his favourite part of our home – and it was the only place Ali would fail to search for any Christmas presents.
On Christmas morning, we had breakfast as usual, then got ready for our family to arrive. I’d already briefed Shelley on the plan and she was very excited, and really looking forward to seeing her little sister’s face when our new arrival made her entrance.
When the doorbell rang at eleven o’clock, I said, ‘Ali, go and answer that, please. It’ll be Auntie Jeannie.’
Ali raced into the hall while John, Shelley and I gathered behind her. As she pulled open the front door, Jeannie stood on the step with her arms folded across her chest.
‘This is a present for you,’ she said.
‘Oh!’ Ali squealed. ‘Look, Mum, it’s my own Bagpuss!’ She stepped aside to let us see. There, tucked into Jeannie’s arms, was little Holly, her eyes peeping out at us.
‘I wish you could see your faces right now,’ Jeannie said. ‘You’re all grinning like the Cheshire Cat.’
Our guests came inside, but Ali was too scared to take tiny Holly into her arms. We moved to the living room where Jeannie placed her gently on the floor. As soon as her paws hit the carpet she scooted behind the sofa and hid. ‘She’s frightened,’ Ali observed.
With some coaxing, patience and tasty treats, we finally got her out.
The rest of the Christmas presents didn’t get a look in that year as our girls fussed over the newest addition to our family. It was a very special time.
Despite John’s earlier anxiety about getting a pet for Ali, he knew, as I did, that we’d made the right call. I’d known in my heart it would all work fine because I knew my husband inside out. John and I had met at the local dance hall when I was sixteen. We married when I was twenty, and he was twenty-seven. When the girls came along, our family had finally seemed complete. It wasn’t until now that I realized a little someone had been missing – Holly.
Years passed and Holly was very much Ali’s cat. We’d told her from the beginning that Holly was her responsibility and she hadn’t let us down. Ali fed her, groomed her and gave her all the love in the world. She even saved up dozens of cat-food coupons to get a special gift: a blue velvet cushion for Holly to sleep on in her bedroom. In return, Holly was her right-hand cat.
I’d be in the kitchen cooking and I’d step out to call everyone to dinner, only to hear music blasting from all over the house. John would be in the lounge listening to his favourite jazz and the girls would be upstairs in their respective bedrooms, playing their own records. They all drove me mad, as well as each other, with their varied tastes, but the only person who had an ally in all the craziness was Ali. Holly followed her wherever she went. The two would cuddle up in her room and listen to music or watch TV together.
We all had a soft spot for Holly. John would scoop her into his arms and talk to her in whispers. He’d stroll to the window and, stroking her under the chin, would gaze outside. ‘Look at that horrible rain, girl. Aren’t you glad you’re here with me instead?’
Holly would purr her agreement.
Our Holly-cat spent many wonderful years being spoilt by everyone in the house, and when the girls moved to a flat in London, Ali returned every weekend to visit. I liked to tell myself that she’d come to see me and John, but she’d race into the house and call for Holly. Her cat would come running to her as if she hadn’t seen her for a year. It was clear the two pined for each other during the week but the girls’ landlord wouldn’t let them have any pets so John and I took care of Holly.
One weekend over breakfast, we noticed Holly was struggling to get her back legs up and out of the cat flap.
‘She’s getting old,’ John said.
By then Holly was eighteen and had lived longer than any of us could have imagined. None of us wanted to think of the difficult decision that would be upon us soon enough, but Ali always insisted, ‘It has to be me. I’ll take her to the vet when it is time.’
Later that morning, John disappeared into the garage. The hours ticked by and I took him a cup of tea. He was banging and sawing and sanding, with chunks of wood and dust flying everywhere.
‘Are you ever coming in?’ I said.
He grinned. ‘I’m making a step for the cat.’
John had always been a wonderful dad and husband, fixing everything around the house, helping the neighbours and decorating the girls’ rooms no matter how often they wanted a change. It was really no surprise that now they were living away he had turned his attention to Holly.
I couldn’t help but wind him up a bit. ‘You didn’t even want a cat all those years ago,’ I said.
‘I know,’ he smiled. ‘But I do love the old girl.’
A short while later, Ali and I gathered in the kitchen to watch John install the pyramid cat-ramp he had fashioned. It meant Holly could step up to the cat flap, push through it and step down the other side with ease. It was perfect.
A year later, even the ramp couldn’t help Holly. She lost the power in her back legs and one day became distressed. We made the call we’d been dreading. The vet agreed to come to the house and we all waited anxiously in the lounge.
Eventually I heard a car pull into the driveway and my heart sank. The doorbell rang and Ali stood up. ‘I’ll get it.’
It was nearly twenty years since that doorbell had rung on Christmas Day and Ali had answered it to say hello to her kitten. Now she showed the vet in and took Holly into her arms. ‘I have to hold Holly as she goes,’ she said.
The vet set to work, gently explaining each step to Ali as he went. I couldn’t bear it and neither could John. He shut himself into the bathroom and I went into the kitchen. Afterwards we all hugged each other and cried, and I vowed I’d never have another cat. It was too painful.
Ali returned to London and, in time, Shelley moved to Chicago for work. It was supposed to be for eighteen months but she stayed longer as her career in advertising soared. John and I were proud of both our girls and missed having them in the house, but we found new things to keep us busy. Ali got a cat and began fostering moggies in need. John and I retired, went on lovely holidays and pottered in the garden. We spent time with friends and neighbours and nipped down to the local pub whenever we could.
One summer we helped Ali buy a place in London and spent the last week of August that year moving her in. John built her a loft ladder and fitted it. He was seventy-two but still fit as a fiddle.
Then, one morning, he went downstairs as I was making the bed. ‘Coffee?’ he called up to me.
‘Yes, please!’ I shouted back.
Seconds later I heard a massive crash and rushed downstairs, my heart hammering. I found John lying flat on his back, eyes wide open. He didn’t appear to be breathing so I dialled 999. Soon an ambulance arrived. The paramedics worked to revive him and he began to stir. That was when we realized that he had hit his head on the worktop as he collapsed and his head was bleeding. He was rushed to hospital, very confused and speaking gibberish.
A scan revealed bad news.
I called Ali. ‘Dad’s not well. The doctors think there’s a tumour in his brain.’
She took a cab all the way home to Maidenhead, and Shelley took the first flight home from Chicago.
Meanwhile John was transferred to the John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxfordshire for brain surgery. Ten hours later, we learnt that he’d had a massive bleed in his brain but there was no tumour. We were told to expect the worst. Somehow, though, he managed to pull through. The next few months were spent first in hospital, then rehabilitation centres. Ali had to return to London and Shelley went back to Chicago.
During that time, without my family and without Holly, the house felt very lonely. Sometimes when I visited John, I’d stare at a beautiful painting of a sunset on the wall in his hospital room and wish we were somewhere else looking at that instead of where we were.
It was a long and difficult journey and John was confused at times. Sometimes, he’d wander off in his pyjamas late at night, unaware of why he was being kept in hospital, and the police would find him sitting in the pub with a half-pint of Guinness, wondering why everyone was staring at him.
It was difficult to see him in that confused state, but I was sure that the resourceful man I’d fallen in love with all those years earlier was still in there somewhere. Finally, after nine hard months and weekly visits from us, I was able to bring John home. When he walked into our house, he was so relieved to be back that we hugged each other for the longest time. Later he’d tell our friends about his pyjama-clad escapades, making himself and everybody else laugh. My John was back, as was Shelley from Chicago, and the four of us took a little holiday to Wales.
Slowly, John was able to get back into his beloved garage. One evening, I noticed he’d developed a cough and thought he’d been out in the cold too long. Weeks passed and five times the doctor insisted it was a virus. But finally I said, ‘John, you must get that cough checked out properly.’
He was referred for an X-ray. Two days later we were called into our local surgery for the result. In the consulting room, the doctor said reluctantly, ‘I’m very sorry but you have lung cancer.’
We sat there in disbelief. ‘But I don’t smoke,’ he said. ‘I never have. Which lung is it?’
‘Both.’
Shelley came home once more and the four of us went to see John’s oncologist. He was matter-of-fact and went straight to the point: ‘I suggest you have a nice holiday and get your affairs in order, John. You have months, not years.’
The cancer had already spread to his hip and spine, and it was too late for chemotherapy. It was a terrible blow after the horrible months John had had to spend in hospital recovering from brain surgery.
That night we climbed into bed and held hands till the sun rose. We talked through our tears and the next day we had a plan.
We booked a two-week holiday on an island in the Canaries and the four of us, with our neighbours Tony and Jean, jetted off together for a much-needed break. When we arrived at the resort, we were shown to a penthouse suite with a huge kitchen, dining room and lounge. It had a wraparound balcony with a jacuzzi and three bedrooms. We drank champagne in the hot tub and spent hours talking about anything but the cancer. At times it was hard to believe that John was so ill.
When we got home, we spent a special Christmas together and the doctor arranged for a hospital bed to be delivered to our home. We took care of John there, and all of his friends came to visit. Jazz music played, and John told stories, everybody laughing. On 30 January 2013, the girls and I gathered around John’s bed and held his hands as he smiled at us, then slipped peacefully away.
Somehow, we ploughed ahead and arranged his funeral. The girls penned beautiful tributes and the church was packed: more than three hundred people came to pay their respects as Frank Sinatra songs and John’s favourite Welsh hymns played. The service marked the end of his life, and the end of forty-seven happy years of marriage.
Afterwards, my friends dropped in and kept in touch by phone, but no matter how many people I spoke to, I felt increasingly alone. My girls were amazing but I understood they had their own lives to lead. Sometimes I’d wake at four a.m. and the silence of my home was deafening. John was gone and loneliness was my new reality. I felt isolated and developed a bizarre anger that I couldn’t hold in. I tried counselling and bereavement groups but nothing seemed to help.
By now, Ali had two cats. ‘Come on, Mum,’ she’d say. ‘Why won’t you get a cat? You’ll feel so much happier.’
‘I don’t want one. I’m not ready.’
She didn’t give up. Every call we shared consisted of Ali going on about me getting a cat for company, and me angrily batting her off.
As the one-year anniversary of John’s death loomed, Ali came over with her iPad and pulled up the website of Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. She clicked on the cats page and began looking through the profiles. She stopped when she saw a ginger cat.
‘Ali, I don’t want a cat.’ I sighed.
‘Please, Mum, let’s just go and have a look together.’
I got into a huff and stomped upstairs. Eventually Ali went to bed. Unable to sleep, I picked up my own iPad and browsed through Battersea’s pages. As I looked at all the cat profiles, I thought, Maybe this isn’t a bad idea after all, though I didn’t admit it to Ali until later.
In time, Ali drove me to Battersea’s site in Old Windsor and we walked through the cattery, reading the profiles and peering into the pens. It was a weekend, and most of the cats had been snapped up. Then I saw a cat called Russell in his pen. The lovely young lady who had been showing us around asked if I’d like to meet him.
I nodded but just as we were about to step inside, Russell slipped from his tray and splashed into his water, sending it flying everywhere. As our guide set about clearing it up, I glanced into the pen next to his. It looked empty but the label on the window said: Grace.
‘What about this little one?’ I asked.
She laughed. ‘She’s not so little! Would you like to meet her?’
Again, I nodded. I went in, sat down and Grace began to emerge from her hiding place. Her long black body seemed to go on for ever. She was a Norwegian Forest Cat and absolutely gorgeous, with piercing yellow eyes as big as saucers. I reached out my hand for her to sniff, slowly, so as not to startle her, and Grace put her wet nose against my fingers. We stayed like that for a moment, neither moving, then Grace pushed forcefully on my hand and rubbed her cheek against it.
Ali and I glanced at each other. ‘She’s timid but she isn’t hiding,’ I said.
Ali grinned. ‘Mum, she’s your cat. I really like her.’
By now, Grace was purring around my legs.
There was such a sense of peacefulness with Grace, that, for the first time in months, I stopped thinking about John and how ill he had been, how much I missed him and how I had nobody to go home to. The anger that had been bubbling inside me since he’d died seemed to ebb away, leaving only a serenity I hadn’t felt for a long time.
I was smitten with Grace, and Ali stepped outside to give us a few minutes together. It was as though the world around us disappeared. Grace gave me so much love and warmth that I wanted to pull her onto my lap but I didn’t dare push my luck. After all, we’d only just met.
There was a cautious neediness about Grace, a bit like me, I suppose. I knew in my heart that she was meant to be my cat because when I was with her the horrible ache inside me went away.
Ali stepped back inside and whispered, ‘How do you feel now, Mum? Are you still angry with me?’
I shook my head. ‘Not at all. I really love her.’
Suddenly she seemed a bit flustered. ‘We can go home and have a think about it, Mum. I feel like I’ve pushed you into it.’
I tried to reassure her: ‘You did push me initially but this is my decision. I really want this cat. I have to have her.’
We left Grace in her pen and returned to talk to the Battersea lady, whose name was Leah. I was asked several questions and talked a lot about Holly – even mentioning the ramp John had made for her. ‘The cat flap is still there,’ I added. Then a question occurred to me. ‘What is Grace’s background?’
Leah told us that Grace had been badly bullied by her sister, who had been very dominant. She had forced Grace, now three years and eight months old, out of the house more and more and her owners had realized that Grace was scared of her sister and never had any peace. ‘Grace’s sister made it plain that she didn’t want Grace around and was being very nasty. Grace isn’t forceful enough to deal with that. Her owners were very upset but knew it was best to find her a loving home.’
I learnt that Grace’s previous owners had left her with a beautiful wicker basket and a scratching post, and hoped for an update once she was settled with a new family. I was more than happy to provide that, so I gave permission for my contact details to be sent to them.
Grace had just had work done on her teeth at the Battersea clinic and was up to date with all her shots, so she was fine to come home with me. Normally, the process takes a bit longer but Battersea were satisfied that Grace and I were a suitable match. We would keep in touch by telephone as Battersea needed to check that everything was going well.
On the way home, I drove the car while Ali held Grace’s basket. She talked to her all the way to keep her calm. When we arrived, we set Grace down in the living room and she came out cautiously. After a few moments, she scooted behind the sofa, like Holly had all those years earlier, but it wasn’t long before she came out, jumped on the sofa, lay down on Ali’s lap and promptly fell asleep. I was amazed but it also made sense: I felt as if Grace had been mine all her life. It was clear that she felt the same about us.
For the first two nights Grace slept upstairs on John’s side of the bed. When I woke in the middle of the night from a bad dream, Grace’s big paw was on my hand. It was as if she had been holding it while I slept. I wanted to grab my mobile phone and take a picture to show Ali but Grace woke up and rolled over. The moment passed in the blink of an eye but the feeling of comfort lingered.
Two weeks later, Ali came to see us and remarked on how chirpy I was. ‘I told you a cat was what you needed. Look at the difference Grace has made to you!’
The stubborn part of my personality, which I had passed on to Ali, made me want to deny that my new happiness was down to Grace but I couldn’t. I no longer found myself putting off coming home or even getting out of bed in the morning because I knew Grace would be waiting for me with love and cuddles.
The house felt alive again with Grace’s miaows, her purring and the soft sound of her paws as she ran around for a crazy minute, or if she heard Ali’s voice call for her through the phone. Even her toys brightened the place up. It was nice to walk into a room and find it different from how I had left it. It made me feel less alone. Grace had a favourite white toy mouse that had come with her from Battersea and she carried it around everywhere. I found it in the kitchen, on the stairs, on the sofa. I sent pictures of Grace sprawled on the carpet and an email about her progress to the Home:
Grace has settled in perfectly and we are both really happy to be getting to know each other. Please let Grace’s previous family know that I promise to look after her. She’s already made such a difference in my life and I can assure you she will be ruined with affection. I love her to pieces.
Before long, I had a forwarded response from Grace’s previous owners:
Dear Irene, thank you for your lovely message. We were so upset when we had to give Grace up but it looks like she has found the peace and comfort she truly deserves with you.
We sent messages and pictures back and forth, talking about Grace and what a special girl she was. It felt so nice to make new friends. It was almost as though John had sent Grace to me, opening up my world again to new experiences and new people.
I later recalled that the day we visited Battersea, we had bumped into a mother and daughter on our way out: they had come to see Grace after spotting her profile online. If I hadn’t finally given in to Ali, I might have missed Grace that day. The thought sends a shiver down my spine.
Grace and I spend hours together. We sit on the sofa while I watch my soaps, and she pushes right up against me. We go into the garden together and chase each other around. We play football and, although I’m seventy, I can still give Grace a run for her money when it comes to hide and seek. She has brought so much sunshine and laughter into my life and we have lots of fun together. There are even times when Grace is my counsellor. I talk to her about John, and if I’m feeling sad, she senses it and makes sure to hang around me for extra cuddles.
Not too long ago I woke in the middle of the night, screaming, from a nightmare. As I sat on the edge of the bed trying to shake away the awful dream, Grace appeared in the doorway to check on me. Then she jumped up on the bed and stared at me until I was ready to lie down. As soon as my head hit the pillow, she curled up against my stomach and stayed there for the rest of the night. She has so much heart and such a caring nature.
Since Grace came to live with me, she has changed my life immeasurably. Before Grace, I was depressed and lonely. Now I feel lighter and happier. I found it hard to be at home after losing John. Now I can’t get back quick enough when I’ve been out. I was annoyed with Ali when she was pushing me towards taking in a cat but my advice to anyone reading this who has lost the person they love is: just think of what a pet could bring you. The joy you feel when you have an animal to care for is immense. They have their own personalities and, like us humans, are unique.
When I am with friends and they ask if I’d like to stay overnight instead of going home, I say, ‘No, thank you. I want to get home and see Grace.’
My home is no longer silent, and that’s down to my amazing Grace.
I looked around at all the boxes, packed with our belongings, and felt a pang of guilt. My husband, Scott, had been urging me to move into our new home for nearly four months but something was stopping me making the move from my parents’ house to our new flat up the road. That something was actually a someone: my dog, Remi.
My English Bull Terrier was fourteen years old and I’d had her from when she was a puppy. Before my brother Daniel had gone to university, he’d had a dog too, Baggy, who was Remi’s sister. As Daniel and I had grown up, our dogs had grown with us. We had journeyed through our lives together and now Dad was taking care of Baggy. I could have taken Remi with me and moved in with Scott but it wouldn’t have been fair on the dogs. The sisters were too old to be split up now.
The thought of leaving Remi behind with my parents at their home in Essex made my heart ache. So, instead of dealing with the separation, I put off moving, giving Scott one excuse after another: ‘We need to get those windows replaced first . . . Let’s redecorate the flat, get it all perfect, then move in.’
Every time, he let out a sigh and smiled knowingly. We both knew the reason I wasn’t ready to make the move and he was gentle with me.
I worked at a school nearby, so every lunchtime I popped home to see Remi and take her for a walk. In the evenings, my dad, Brian, did the honours. He loved her and Baggy as much as my brother and I did. Throughout my adolescence, I’d taken Remi to my friends’ homes or to play in the park. As I’d got older, she’d come in the car with me wherever I went and was next to me when I caught up with friends at the pub. She had been a huge part of my life and the thought of living in a flat without a dog was too much to take.
Then, one sunny Sunday morning, I had an idea. ‘Do you fancy a look around Battersea Dogs & Cats Home?’ I asked Scott.
He looked up the opening hours. ‘It opens at ten. Let’s go after breakfast.’
An hour later we were at the gates. I wasn’t really sure what kind of dog I was looking for until I saw Frank, a brindled Staffordshire Bull Terrier. He was bouncing up and down with excitement. We stopped to stay hello. ‘He looks cheeky, doesn’t he?’ I said to Scott.
He agreed. ‘What about this beautiful Husky, though?’ He pointed to a gorgeous white Inuit standing proudly in the kennel next door. He was much calmer than Frank and really quite majestic. They were both beautiful dogs, but when I glanced back at Frank, something about his face made me smile. I had always been a fan of bull breeds and I could tell Frank had a lovely personality.
Scott and I continued our tour, and after a while we decided to go for an assessment to find out if Battersea thought we’d make suitable owners. We figured there was no harm in trying. We registered our details, and Ellie, who worked there, interviewed us to learn about our experience with dogs, our working hours, our home situation and our property. Then she said, ‘Did you like any of the dogs you saw today?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘We liked the look of two.’
She didn’t ask which ones. Instead she explained that they liked to try to match the dog to us, rather than give us the dog we wanted: each dog is rehomed to a family who can cater for all its needs. Ellie tapped on her computer and after a while she said: ‘I think I have the perfect dog for you. His name is Frank.’
‘The Staffie?’ I said.
‘That’s the one,’ came the reply. It felt like fate.
We were taken to a room to meet Frank, and moments later the door opened. A familiar black-and-ginger shape bounded in. Ellie unclipped Frank’s lead and he rushed straight past me to the far corner of the room where a box of toys sat waiting. He snuffled around the box, then took as many as he could in his mouth. He trotted back to me, dumped the items at my feet and sat down promptly. He stared at me then, as if to say, Come on, aren’t you going to play with me?
In that moment, I knew Frank was coming home with us. Scott felt the same and we told Ellie we’d take him, if we were allowed to. She started filling out the paperwork and told us somebody would visit our home during the next week. We agreed, of course, then learnt some more about Frank’s background.
He was six months old but, sadly, his previous owners hadn’t been able to devote the hours needed to help Frank with his separation anxiety, an emotional and behavioural problem dogs can suffer from if left alone for too long. They are naturally sociable animals and the thousands of years they have spent working and living with humans has made some dogs sensitive to being alone. I was determined to put in the time and effort Frank needed from me.
I explained that the school where I worked was just up the road from our new home and I would be out for a maximum of two hours at a time. I’d pop home for lunch and a walk at midday, go back to school for one o’clock, then be home again by three. I knew I could make it work. I wasn’t going to let him go to another family because, quite simply, he had stolen my heart.
Six hours after we’d arrived at Battersea, we were able to take Frank home with us. It was unusual but, as we lived quite far away, it was deemed the best option. We were reminded that a member of the Battersea rehoming team would visit our house to check it was suitable for Frank.
We set off and drove straight home to Mum and Dad’s to introduce our new arrival. Frank, Remi and Baggy sniffed each other but didn’t show much more interest so Scott and I decided to walk over to the park. Just before we left the house, I stopped Scott and told him to grab the keys to our new flat. His eyebrows shot up but he said no more.
We kept Frank on the lead as we didn’t know how good his recall was and didn’t want to risk him running away or having to chase him all over the place. He was very excited and pulled on the lead quite a bit, but I knew I’d have that under control soon enough.
When Frank was as worn out as we were, we walked over to our ground-floor maisonette. Most of our belongings were there already, and for the first time since we’d bought it, we spent the night in our home. As we settled down to sleep, Scott said, ‘If I had known it would take a dog to get you here, Rachel, I would have found you one months ago!’
It was hard being away from Remi but having Frank to greet me in the morning made it easier. Time passed and we all settled in, but Frank did find it hard to be alone. Even though it was never more than a couple of hours, I’d come home to find the loo roll shredded, poo behind the front door and the door trims pulled off. But I knew I had to persevere. If I didn’t put in the time to teach Frank that I would always come home to him, his anxiety would never ease.
Whenever I was at school, I left the radio playing for Frank and made sure the bathroom door was shut. When I got home, I’d play with him for hours, take him to see my parents and get him used to socializing. I bought lots of toys to occupy him and keep his mind off me when I was out. I hoped all the extra love and care would do the trick. But eighteen months after we’d brought him home, Frank was still struggling. Whenever he became fearful, he was destructive. I knew that I would never give up on him, so I did some reading and spoke to friends who had dogs. One suggested I get Frank a crate. In the past, I hadn’t been keen on the idea but now I figured anything was worth a try.
I placed the crate in the hallway, with his bed inside. Frank was watching me curiously and as soon as I stepped aside he rushed in and sank into his bed. From that moment on, he calmed down completely. I realized he hadn’t felt safe until I’d got the crate and that was why he became so fretful when I was out. The crate gave him a safe haven and a sense of security. It was a breakthrough for us and I was chuffed to bits to see the positive change in him. In the evenings Frank slept in his crate, always with the door open.
Around the same time, I signed Frank up to obedience classes. He loved doing them so much that I signed up for an agility course too. He thoroughly enjoyed the stimulation and it helped us bond even more. Also, he was really good at it. He was a natural at obedience because he was such a smart boy. Sometimes, when it came to the agility, the movement and running around got him a bit overexcited and he’d dart off to run laps around the course to burn off some of his energy. I wondered if I should stop the agility and focus on the obedience, but then I remembered how my continued effort to understand Frank had led us to the crate. I wanted to put in a lot of effort with him so I persisted with both.
That wasn’t to say Frank didn’t drive me mad sometimes.
He’d run in circles and bark with excitement. ‘Oh, Frank!’ I’d say. ‘Will you come here!’ Eventually he’d come to heel and look very pleased with himself.
The hours I put in paid off. Two years on, Frank won a prize at the training school’s annual awards ceremony. He puffed out his chest and I beamed with pride as he was given treats and we accepted the accolade of Best Agility Dog and Best Handler.
Frank joined the Battersea Agility Display Team after I went to a reunion at Old Windsor and he won a Best Trick class. One of the handlers saw Frank’s potential and put me in touch with Ali, who dealt with the team. Frank was a shoo-in for a place on it and flourished. He loved taking part in the displays: going over jumps, through tunnels and weaves, over dog walks and A-frames. His skills were endless. Being on the team led to other opportunities too, like magazine shoots and appearances on Paul O’Grady: For the Love of Dogs. Frank went around the agility course at a dog show with Paul himself. I was so very proud.
While my relationship and bond with Frank went from strength to strength, somebody else was becoming weaker in body and mind. My darling Remi was an old girl now and was no longer interested in going for walks with me and Frank. Instead, she liked to sleep a lot and relax in her twilight years. Eventually, she passed away, as did Baggy.
She left a hole in my life that I couldn’t quite bear. It was lucky that, just recently, I had taken in Roxy, an English Bull Terrier, from Bull Breed Rescue. It was good for Frank to have a new friend. But Roxy was a scabby mess who had been terribly mistreated. She had demodectic mange and her coat had fallen out, but her personality shone through.
She and Frank became the best of friends and happily trotted alongside one another on walks. They liked to nap together too. Whenever we went out in the car the two of them sat happily in the back until we reached our destination.
I only ever had trouble with Roxy when it was bath time. And who could blame her? She needed daily medicated baths and quickly caught on that a visit to the bathroom meant the smelly shampoo would come out. She started to run and hide in her crate when six p.m. loomed. She’d squash herself into a corner so that I couldn’t get her out, which was very distressing for everyone. I hated doing it to her, Roxy hated me doing it to her, and Frank fretted that we were both upset, pacing around us as, every evening, the drama unfolded. In time, however, Roxy’s skin healed and those horrible chemical baths became a thing of the past.
Frank and Roxy played tug-of-war and on walks they ran across the fields together like the wind. Yet, whenever they needed to be well behaved and calm, they were as good as gold.
One Christmas, when a teacher at school asked if I’d bring my dogs in to meet the children, I didn’t hesitate to say yes. The children had special needs and some suffered with painful physical problems. I hoped seeing the dogs would be fun for them and provide a brief escape from their difficulties.
On the designated morning, I pulled open my chest of fancy-dress items and Roxy and Frank appeared beside me with their tails wagging. They both knew that a fun day lay ahead. I dressed them in matching reindeer outfits and we set off for school. They were excited and a bit hyper as we walked to work because they knew those outfits meant they were about to receive lots of fuss and cuddles. But as soon as we went through the doors into the school, they fell into step beside me and were as cool as cucumbers.