An End and A Beginning

There once was a girl who desperately wanted a dog.

She’d thought about getting a dog for some time: a house never really feels like a home unless one is permanently tripping over rawhide bones, lurid squeaky toys and large, recumbent hairy bodies that with unerring accuracy always settle into a deep slumber in the exact place your foot turns to tread next.

Her reasons for not leaping into solitary canine ownership were varied: not settled enough; not enough money to feed herself, let alone a pet (goldfish aside, and even they had experienced first-hand the feast and famine involved with sharing her life); landlords always included the no-pets stipulation; and anyway, would keeping a dog in an apartment, without even a sniff of a garden, be irresponsible in the extreme?

But life had recently been coming together in such a way that after five years of longing, sharing her life with a dog might be less of a pipe dream than previously supposed.

Such thoughts coincided with an ex-colleague springing into the picture, waving a four-week old Labrador/German Shepard puppy at the girl, who, despite her serious concerns that four weeks old was far too young for a puppy to be separated from mum and litter mates, simply lacked the willpower to resist…

The bed was bought; the toys, the bowls, the treats, the collar and the lead.

The walks were sourced and the balcony puppy-proofed.

But sadly not enough, for within 24 hours the tiny creature – half-crazed with grief and confusion – managed to heave its body over a cactus, through the only miniscule gap in the plastic netting and onto the tarmac three floors below.

The girl had never before felt such despair or such guilt.

And that might well have been where the story ended, had it not been for my friend Anja, (yes, she had followed me to Marbella from Granada) who not only accompanied me through the dark, booze-filled hours following that pitiful discovery, but also took control of the following day…

Before I was awake enough to vocalise any coherent objections, I found myself in the car, halfway to Estepona – and Adana, a dog rescue home.

It was the most awful place I had ever visited, and when I asked the frazzled-looking man running the operation about the origins of his sorry tenants, I found myself wishing I hadn’t.

In Spain, especially the southern regions, domestic animals were not regarded in the same way as in other more ‘civilised’ areas. Although things were changing, and hopefully fast, dogs bred for hunting were still often destined for a horrible end.

Some hunters simply hanged their faithful companions from trees when they were no longer lithe enough to work; others threw their animals into bonfires, alive; some abandoned them in the middle of nowhere – not before breaking one of their legs so they couldn’t follow behind the vehicle.

These were just some of the horrible injuries I was seeing all around me.

Unfortunately, dispatching the dogs humanely was a cost the shelter couldn’t afford, so they just tried to make the animals’ lives as comfortable as was in their power.

We explained I was looking for a young dog that would not grow to elephantine proportions and that would be happy in an apartment. In the meantime, I spotted a young golden retriever-cross that looked docile enough to suit my modest needs.

Anja, however, had other ideas.

Turning to me as I sneezed my way around the foul-smelling shelter, snoozing pup cradled in my arms, she shook her head.

‘You can’t have that one. Go and put it back.’

‘But I like this one. What’s wrong with it?’ She prodded the fluffy creature between its plump ribs and then gestured expansively.

‘It looks half-dead. You need something with more gumption.’

‘I don’t know about that…’ But I was talking to myself. She had already marched over to another pen that held about twenty puppies of assorted shapes and sizes. They all came running upon hearing our voices. All bar one.

Towards the back of the pen, rushing around in mad circles whilst nipping at its more sedate room mates’ ankles and stealing their biscuits was a demon puppy.

Anja’s eyes lit up.

‘Anja, no, please, not that one, please.’ My pleas fell on deaf ears, and my hangover began to thump behind my eyes with renewed vigour as she spoke to the assistant.

‘Podemos ver aquello? Sí, sí, ese. Gracias.’ He deposited the wiggling baby in her arms and it proceeded to liberally cover her in licks with a little pink tongue; squeaking its excitement noisily.

‘It’s a boy.’ She announced, having lifted it for inspection.

‘Lovely. Can we put it back now?’ Oh God. I was talking to myself again. Anja, with puppy still perched joyously in her arms, was off asking all manner of worrying questions.

‘What breed of dog is this?’

‘Es un cruce podenco.’ She appeared to have never heard of the Podenco breed, I certainly hadn’t and on top of that this particular one was crossed with something unidentifiable into the bargain.

‘Do they grow big?’

‘No, no son perros grandes.’ Not big dogs. That was a good thing.

‘Are they good apartment dogs?’

‘Sí, sí. Ningún problema.’

Of course he was lying through his desperate teeth, but how were we to know?

Still submerged in my vino-induced miasma, I blindly handed over the required donation to the shelter, and off we walked to the car and towards the journey of a lifetime…

The puppy – seeming to sense that despite my lack of enthusiasm I was going to be his new provider – spent the journey back to Marbella cradled on Anja’s lap; tiny chin resting on my gear stick hand, large brown eyes fixed unswervingly on my face.

We regarded each other warily through the malodorous miasma of impoverished rescue dog that was rising off him, and the stale alcohol fumes being emitted by yours truly as I crunched gears and asked myself for the hundredth time what had possessed me.

I cannot tell you what his initial impression of his new home was – he refurbished it quite considerably during the two years he was there, so I can only assume that he hadn’t been overly impressed.

The first adjustment he made was to convert the balcony into an unpleasant brown swimming pool. Attempting to contain the tide of crap threatening to cascade down onto the neighbour’s plants was my initial concern, but I soon found myself distracted by even more worrying things.

For in amongst the chocolate hue, were some unmistakable streaks of bold scarlet and it was at that point that the possible extent of his health problems dawned on me.

In my previous fantasies of canine companionship I had secretly envisaged an Andrex-type situation, but most certainly not of the nature he was presenting me with. Where was the adorable gambolling puppy exuding signs of robust good health with every wag of his tail? Why did I have an ugly, manic puppy exuding everything but good health all over my spotless balcony?

‘Right.’ My new charge looked up at me unblinkingly, before squatting to finish what he had started.

‘Oh Bloody Hell.’ I heaved a sigh (whilst trying not to breathe through my nose) and made another grab for the mop and the now revoltingly soupy bucket of water…

Thus my charge cavorted and deposited until sleep overcame him, and I could finally sink down onto the sofa and into a horrified, hangover-induced trance.

My so-called friend continued to be delighted with her choice but I think she found my silence rather disconcerting and, taking her cue from the contented puppy snores, made a hasty getaway whilst I was left to contemplate what seemed like potentially the worst decision I had ever been coerced into making.

Puppy’s first visit to the vet was enlightening – I had certainly never imagined that such a tiny creature could have so many things wrong with him: calcium deficiency, chest infection, malnourishment, parasites of all shapes and sizes… As the doggy doctor droned on with what seemed to be the complete A-Z of possible canine illnesses, all I could hear was the steady clink clank clunk of hard-earned pennies seeping into the pockets of this white-coated harbinger of bad tidings.

I sighed down into the puzzled little face of my expensive new acquisition and dug deep into my purse, before scooping up the invalid and heading home to begin treatment.

The vet, apparently not having taken into account that the puppy’s diminutive size was in direct proportion to my veterinary experience, had prescribed pills that would have presented an adult elephant with serious logistical problems.

But we battled gamely on; the puppy gazing trustingly up at me as I struggled to get the beastly things into him without a) dislocating his tiny jaw b) inadvertently blocking his windpipe c) screaming with frustration or d) fainting.

And so it went on, an endless cycle of pill-popping, vet-hopping and poo-mopping until at last he was given a relatively clean bill of health, and I could start the serious business of naming and training him.

Anja eventually reappeared to check how puppy/girl relations were progressing, and another boozy birds’ night in led to the satisfying completion of task number one on the list.

Following a family tradition that had begun with an all-liver German short-haired pointer called Bach (JS), before continuing with aforementioned chocolate Labrador, Franck (César), I had already decided that only a composer would do.

So we ran through the options – I was rather keen on Rimsky Korsakov myself, but sadly nobody else was in favour – until a moniker so perfect I am amazed it wasn’t already tattooed on his forehead popped out of my mouth and set the wee man firmly on the first step of the ladder to individuality.

Welcome to my world, little Strauss.

(And thank you Anja, for gifting me twelve wonderful, adventure-filled, country-hopping years, in the company of the most loving and faithful canine companion I could have wished for).