The Puppy That Came for Christmas Page 15

  I followed their progress and realized that my arms had come out in goose bumps and that I was getting a bit dizzy from holding my breath involuntarily.

  “Shall we go and say hello?” I said.

  “Not now, the ceremony’s about to start,” said Ian, shaking his head.

  So we waited, and the show began.

  Each Helper Dog and partner came to the stage in turn and were introduced. Then the owner told the audience about their life before and after the dog. Some of the dogs were placed with disabled people who needed carers to support them, some with people in charge of their own families, and some with people who were living with their parents. Male and female, old and young, and from all parts of the country, they were united only by their love and gratitude for their Helper Dogs.

  There were lots of heartrending stories as well as a few funny ones. One young man, Matthew, took to the stage, and described his life living at home with his mum and dad.

  “I need a lot of physical help, and I was so desperate for a dog I was phoning the Helper Dogs office twice a day some days,” he said. “In fact, they rang my mum to ask her to tell me to stop: ‘We’ll let you know straightaway when there’s a suitable one!’ they said.” He blushed. “But I just borrowed my mate’s mobile to ring them instead. Now I’ve got Dailey, he’s transformed my life.

  “He just does so much that I hadn’t expected. I was delighted that Dailey can open drawers,” he continued. “Because of my condition I don’t have the strength to do it myself, but with a bit of rope and a ball attached to the drawer Dailey does it with ease. I don’t like drafts—my hands swell up and turn blue in the cold, and he can open and shut all the doors in the house. When I get really cold, he brings me a blanket and cuddles up to me to keep me warm. He’s always so gentle and careful. It’s as if he knows this body of mine should have a ‘fragile’ label attached to it.”

  In fact, Matthew hadn’t chosen Dailey; Dailey had chosen him. The bond between a Helper Dog and their partner must be much stronger than that between a person and their pet, so Helper Dogs’ usual procedure is to take a group of people wanting dogs, people who’ve passed the assessment and have suitable living arrangements, and put them in the same room as the latest batch of trained puppies. The center staff then look on as the humans and dogs get to know each other and the dogs naturally gravitate to their favorite people. Though it didn’t always work perfectly, more often than not that particular person would end up becoming the dog’s partner.

  The next person on stage was a boy of twelve called David, one of the lucky few children that Helper Dogs worked with. Alongside his mum, Aretha, he showed the audience a video of what his dog, Connor, did to help each day. It started with Connor on David’s bed and then David pretending to wake up and Connor licking him. Connor then brought clothes over to David, item by item, before giving him his towel after David had his morning wash. At school, Connor carried David’s books in a special backpack and they were greeted by lots of friends as they walked down the corridor together. Then, in the classroom David dropped his pencil on the floor and Connor picked it up and put it on his desk before having a little snooze. He must have been dreaming about something nice because his tail wagged to and fro as he slept.

  All through David’s school day Connor was there, helping him. He even handed over David’s money and got his change for him in the canteen. After school the two of them played and watched TV before finally going to bed.

  “And that’s our day,” David said at the end of the video. “A day in the life of me and my best friend.”

  I loved all the stories, but I was desperate for our girl’s turn. At last, Emma led Mike on to the stage.

  “I first met Emma at the Head Office. She came running over to me straightaway. It was like as soon as she saw me she knew I was the one for her,” he said. “Then they brought her to visit the school where I work and I was amazed how calm she was during a PE lesson—most dogs would have started chasing balls or barking at the kids.

  “She’s like my shadow, and I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have her in my life now. She picks up my stick and my keys and takes off my socks, hats and gloves, which is really useful in the winter when I have three or four classes outside every day. One time, I was explaining something to the kids, they were all sitting down on the floor in front of me, and I saw out of the corner of my eye Emma, sitting at the end of one of the rows, with her head cocked to one side, looking like she was taking it all in. And I’m pretty sure she was—she’s absolutely the smartest dog I’ve ever known. Sometimes, when I’m pointing to the kids during matches, she thinks I need her to fetch something and is there before anyone else has worked out what I was asking. She’s so finely attuned to what I need that she’s almost too clever.”

  Then the master of ceremonies asked all the people involved in Emma’s life prior to her being placed to come to the front, one by one. My heart leaped as, being her first puppy parent, my name was first on the list. I made sure Ian had his camera out and then started the long walk to the front of the hall. I said hello to Mike, but I only had eyes for Emma, and could barely stop stroking her and saying hello. Finally, I straightened up, a little embarrassed at how long I’d spent catching up with Emma in front of so many people. The master of ceremonies started calling out more names, and I looked down at Emma once again. She looked up at me and then suddenly jumped into my arms for a cuddle.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Mike said. “She never usually jumps up.”

  “That’s OK,” I said, beaming. “She’s remembering when she was a very little girl.”

  Emma’s tail didn’t stop pumping from side to side, and I couldn’t have been more delighted.

  We all had our photo taken with Emma, everyone who’d loved and supported her, and worked so hard to turn her into the dog she was today; then our moment was over, and I left the stage and went back to sit down with Ian and Freddy.

  After the ceremony, lunch was served in a long, airy room looking out over one of the lawns, and I had a chance to chat with Mike and have a proper cuddle with Emma. Ian, too, said hello to our little girl and, gaining Mike’s say-so, gave her a few treats for old times’ sake. Mike fed her some curry from his plate, on a little bit of naan bread, and I smiled as I remembered how much she’d loved tasting our curry when she was with us. Even though we’d been asked not to treat the dogs as pets we hadn’t been able to resist spoiling her a little bit, and it didn’t seem to have harmed her at all.

  “She so loves you,” I said to Mike, totally approving of her being given yummy bits from his plate.

  “And I love her,” he said. “I was devastated just after I received her because I thought I might have to give her up again. I couldn’t fit all her feeding and toilet schedules into my school timetable, but Helper Dogs was really understanding and said it could be adjusted to suit us both.”

  I stroked Emma and she stretched up her head for more.

  “The other weird thing was that when they introduced all the dogs they said she was one that didn’t need that much affection,” he continued.

  I looked at him aghast. “They did? Why would they say that?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess because she would still do what you asked her even if you didn’t give her any affection.”

  I was so pleased she’d been placed with him and his family, who were obviously showering her with affection, rather than a person who thought she didn’t need it and so wasn’t giving it.

  “Don’t worry yourself!” he said. “Every night she comes in to have a cuddle with me and my girlfriend, before going to sleep in our daughter’s room, next to her bed.”

  She’d become an instant hit with everyone at school, and all around the small town in which he lived too. Once, he’d left her with a couple of trainee teachers for the morning, and had returned to the staff room to find a miniature obstacle course set up, with crisp crumbs beside many of the small jumps. The two stud
ents guiltily confessed that they’d made an agility course for Emma; then, as they got carried away in their tale, they forgot they were supposed to be acting contrite.

  “She was really fast!” said the first.

  “And she got even faster when we used the crisps,” said the second.

  “She could be like, like, a champion!”

  “She’s already a champion to me,” Mike told them.

  Emma and Freddy were overjoyed to see each other and had a long play together on the grass outside while we watched, smiling. Our two puppies.

  When we left, I gave Mike a little photographic diary I’d had made of Emma’s first six months with us, the cutest photos I could find along with extracts from her blog and her columns.

  “If you ever need anyone to look after her for any reason . . .”

  “We could always do it,” Ian said. “We could even pick her up.”

  “Thanks,” Mike said. “The Helper Dogs’ support team usually sorts out that kind of thing.”

  It was time to go home.

  “Bye, Emma,” I said, and gave her a hug.

  “Bye-bye, puppy girl,” Ian said, and gave her the last of the treats we had.

  Freddy kept looking back at her as we headed for the car.

  I felt happy on the drive home. Emma was in the right place and with the right people for her. She helped Mike get on with his life, to complete all the daily personal tasks he needed, which allowed him in turn to teach all the kids that needed him. Without her, the school would have had to hire another PE teacher and he would be at home, feeling depressed and unwanted. I realized that I wouldn’t have wanted to take Emma away for any reason, although if she ever needed a retirement home our house would always be there for her. Later that evening, Mike e-mailed to tell us his little daughter had taken Emma’s diary to bed with her to have read as a bedtime story.

  A few days later, Freddy breezed through his Bronze Kennel Club exam—lying down and staying down during his one-minute stay, coming immediately when he was called, resisting the other dog distractions and treats on the floor when asked to do so. The examiner was so impressed she suggested he try for his Silver exam too—even though we hadn’t really practiced for it. Two exams in one day, however, was simply too much, and an overexcited Freddy chewed on his lead, pooed on the pavement and didn’t jump up into the car when asked.

  The examiner smiled as she shook her head: “Not quite ready for his silver yet,” she said.

  Nevertheless, the time for Freddy to move on was coming ever closer.

  20

  It seemed to take me weeks to get the house and garden spotless for the social worker’s visit to talk about becoming foster parents, and the stress began to get to me as I worked like crazy making each room beautiful by turn. Ian worked from home the day before to give me moral support, but by that time I was feeling very fraught and his presence actually did the opposite. He said something in a funny tone of voice, and though I managed not to cry in front of him, I went straight out into the garden, burst into tears and cried so much that I couldn’t talk to my mum when she phoned. Ian had to explain to her, and then to Jamie, who rang to find out why I hadn’t come to class, that I was feeling a little fragile. Jamie told Ian to buy me a big cake, which finally stopped the flood and made me laugh. Jamie loved cake—it was his answer to most of life’s problems.

  I began to calm down.

  “It makes me feel so hopelessly sad when you’re mean to me,” I told Ian, though I could tell from his face he had absolutely no idea what he’d done wrong. I wasn’t even sure myself.

  I carried on gardening outside for most of the day so he couldn’t upset me more.

  The next morning, I had a surprise visit from an old friend, Narinder, whom I hadn’t seen in more than ten years. Freddy, for some reason, was wildly excited to see her and she did very well—for a cat person—confronted with a huge bouncy puppy.

  I hadn’t known before her visit, but Narinder and her husband had tried to conceive for fifteen years without success. Then she’d had a massive heart attack. It was so touch and go that her family had been asked to come to the hospital to say their farewells, but she pulled through.

  “After that we decided we were fine with just the two of us and our cats,” Narinder said.

  I told her about the social worker’s impending visit. One of Narinder’s sisters was going to be starting fostering training after a tough initial interview, and her mother privately fostered a boy with autism every other weekend to give his parents a break.

  “She loves it,” Narinder said. “He’s like the grandchild she’s never had and is never likely to have—at least not a birth grandchild.”

  Ian arrived home, smart and responsible in his suit, just before the doorbell rang for the second time that day.

  “Oh, you have a dog,” said Hazel the social worker primly when she saw the toy bones and teddies piled neatly in the corner. She was using the sort of voice usually reserved for cockroaches, or an infestation of moths.

  “He’s just a puppy,” I said reassuringly.

  Freddy bounded into view and she took two steps back.

  “He’s huge! I thought you meant a little puppy,” she said. “I don’t really like dogs,” she added, somewhat unnecessarily.

  I shut Freddy in the kitchen, but he got upset and started to bark, so I put him on his lead and he lay at my feet staring at Hazel, who’d sat in his favorite spot on the sofa. It was new, and he’d taken to sleeping upon it, his head resting on the arm. He tried to join her once or twice, but I held his lead close very tightly.

  Hazel kept on shifting awkwardly, rearranging herself and her things, and glancing over at Freddy, which made us very uncomfortable too. She shuffled her papers, and opened and shut her folder while we tried to tell her about our experiences of working with kids with learning difficulties, and about both being Camp America counselors at different times. Ian had also just started reading with kids at a local primary school during his lunch hour, through a work corporate social responsibility scheme.

  “Are you interested in fostering teenagers?” asked Hazel.

  I looked at Ian. Although we knew some lovely teenagers, it wasn’t something we’d really considered and I didn’t think we’d be much good at it. Even with his dog-sized intelligence and capacity for mischief, Freddy walked all over us, so I was pretty sure it’d be a breeze for a teenager to do the same.

  “It’d probably be best to take two children,” said Hazel. “Siblings, I mean.”

  Now it was Ian’s turn to look over at me.

  “Maybe you should just try us with one first,” he smiled nervously.

  I showed her around the house, feeling very proud of how beautiful it looked, explaining how I’d like to keep my office, where I wrote, if at all possible. I showed her some of the picture books I’d written, feeling sure that this would clinch the deal—that we’d simply scream out “YOUNG CHILDREN” to her. Freddy, still on his lead, had calmed down and was being a good boy; I was radiating stressed-out vibes and Golden Retrievers are very intuitive.

  “I’m not sure you could fit two kids in the back bedroom, unless you put the bunks around like that . . .” Hazel’s voice trailed off as she mentally measured out the space. “Maybe an older child in here and then a baby in with you in the master bedroom. Listen, I can’t say more now. I’ll talk to my manager when she comes in on Friday.”

  She’d clearly had enough of Freddy and left. We had a celebratory glass of Cava, though we weren’t sure exactly what we were celebrating, if we were celebrating, or even if she’d heard anything we’d said.

  “She didn’t seem to listen to our experience of working with kids with learning difficulties,” I said. We’d thought that being interested in fostering children with special needs would strengthen our case.

  “She definitely didn’t pay any attention when we said we only wanted one child,” said Ian.

  The whole meeting had put a sour cast on t
he idea of fostering. In the space of an hour it had changed in my mind from a rich and personally fulfilling social service to something fraught with hazards. Hazel had repeatedly mentioned how many children had very challenging behaviors, and had said to Ian that even though a baby might seem easier to look after, foster parents usually had to allow the birth parents access every day, which might mean that an adult with drink, drug or mental health problems would be coming round to our house. I didn’t like the thought of that at all.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up yet. This had only been the initial fostering meeting and I so wanted to experience raising a child with Ian. Hazel might have been having an off day, and surely, I thought, it was their duty to paint the blackest of pictures in order to weed out people who shouldn’t be fostering. If we fell at the first hurdle, then it was right that we shouldn’t be allowed to raise a child—the most important job there is. Besides, I wasn’t going to let a snooty social worker put me off. We’d already been through so much at the hospital and at the IVF clinic. We were tougher, far tougher, than that.

  At our next Helper Dogs class I told the other puppy parents how it had gone. Liz said a friend of hers fostered teenage girls.

  “They can be complete terrors,” she said. “They know exactly how to manipulate adults to get what they want, and there’s not much a foster parent can do if they misbehave—you have no authority. The biggest punishment you can give is to take away their allowance, but you have to return it all as soon as they behave again.”

  I looked at the dogs. Freddy was playing with Finn, Liz’s latest puppy. Finn was a week younger than Freddy and had been donated by a farm. When Freddy and Finn got together it was like two teenage boys having a scrap, and they’d been told off by Jamie more than once for misbehaving. I didn’t tell Liz, but I was pleased that someone like her—a far more experienced dog owner—sometimes had no control over her puppy either. Elvis, meanwhile, was lying in the corner looking idly at the wall. At ten months old, he was twice the age of all the other puppies in the class, and his inclusion was more or less token; Helper Dogs had accepted he wasn’t made of quite the right stuff and were investigating other options for him.