Finlay the Cocker Spaniel on the beach in Islay, Scotland
I like to think I never follow the crowd, but on this occasion, I have to put my hands up and admit that it was definitely the case. Like so many others in the UK, when lockdown hit, I decided we should get a dog. It seemed like the perfect opportunity: we were at home the whole time, so could put in the hours required to train him and we could share the walking duties between four of us. There was the added fact that I had just left my role as Editor-in-Chief of British Country Living Magazine and needed an extra distraction. At least this is how I sold it in to my husband. He’s never had a dog before. He’s always been a cat person. But, ever open to new ideas, he agreed it might be fun to have a canine companion.
My daughters took no persuading. They had been nagging endlessly since Biscuit, our Jack Russell died six years ago. “Please mum, the house just doesn’t feel right without a dog” and “We’ll all take our turn at helping!” I pointed out that they had never helped before “But that’s because Biscuit only seemed to listen to you”. “Ahhhh, and why might that be?” I countered. I had refused to give in while I was working full time and commuting, but then I retired, lockdown happened and everything changed. All my reasons for not getting a dog suddenly seemed redundant. It felt like we might never go on holiday again and as we weren’t doing much of anything except hanging out at home, we might as well have a dog hanging out with us. My daughters were delighted, my husband in cautious agreement and so we acquired Finlay, an eight-week-old Show Cocker Spaniel. I knew it was vital to get a good dog trainer – and we’ve had three at various times. We, and Finlay, have learned plenty from each of them and it is getting easier as each month goes by, but crikey, it’s hard work.
MAYBE THIS WAS A MISTAKE
It’s such a responsibility. I know it sounds naïve and ridiculous to say this, but I’d forgotten just how much time, energy and brain-power having a dog involves. How going on holiday (now that we can) becomes like a military operation, how going out, even for the afternoon, requires advance planning. How one has to get up early, including at the weekends, to walk the dog or at least let him out in the garden. How the furniture takes a beating and muddy pawprints are part of everyday life. Finlay is 20 months old now and my husband is still in shock. He can’t believe how complicated having a dog is. Cats, as he keeps pointing out, just come and go through a cat-flap or open window, lie around sleeping a lot and occasionally, when the mood takes them, allow you to pet them or deign to sit on your knee. Dogs, he has realised, have to be walked – in this case, a lot. They sit at the back door wanting to go out and then sit on the other side of it wanting to come in again. They need to be played with, mentally challenged and entertained. Finlay stares at us when we are watching TV, willing us to pet him and when the ear tickling is not forthcoming, alerts us to his desires by pawing or barking at us. We’ve had to nip that in the bud. He’s suddenly become obsessive about the ball, won’t give it up and growls if another dog comes near. We’ve had to nip that it the bud. He loves water, but let him in the river and he won’t come out. Honestly, he would swim to the sea. We’ve had to nip that in the bud. As fast as we overcome one problem, a new one surfaces.
If allowed, Finlay would go everywhere at 100 miles an hour, furry legs whirring, tail frantically wagging and pink tongue lolling out. It’s lovely to let him run, but he’ll get a scent and then all is lost. Nose down, bum up, he’s oblivious to anything else around him. Even with the tastiest treats on offer, his recall is intermittent and that’s putting it mildly. Still, at least the training lead we bought gets plenty of use - he’s on and off it on a daily basis, as we try to get him to remain calm and focused. I long for the day when I can just take him for a relaxing off-lead walk without the fear of what mischief he will get up to. I have to admit: I have asked myself more than once, why did I get another dog?
I HAVE FORM
The fact is that I have form in this area: As a child I used to plead with my parents to let me have a dog but the answer was always no. Who can blame them – they had four kids and my two, much older brothers, had had every pet imaginable apart from a dog – rabbits, guinea pigs, mice, budgies, a cat – my parents just didn’t want any more of the stress and inconvenience. As a result, all I was allowed was a hamster who I called – imaginatively, Hammy. I got a holiday job in a pet shop where I could cuddle puppies, kittens and baby rabbits to my heart’s content and that staved off the yearning for a while. Then I had an idea: if I just took a puppy home, my parents wouldn’t have the heart to make me take it back. I planned my campaign carefully. Having earmarked an eight-week-old black and tan mongrel and paid for him out of my wages, I went, one afternoon after school to collect him and carried him home on the bus inside my coat. I arrived home where my mother was having a cup of tea in the sitting room and undid the buttons to reveal his adorable little face. “Oh, how lovely” my mother said “Who does he belong to?” I set him down on the carpet and let him patter towards her. “He’s mine” I replied as she stroked his head. She looked up at me and laughed before realising I was deadly serious. She was furious. “Wait till your father gets home. We’ve told you no, so you can’t keep him”. I cried and pleaded, but she was immovable. I had expected this, but was pretty certain I could win my Dad over. I usually could. Sure enough, they had a discussion in the kitchen after dinner and my mother emerged issuing an ultimatum “He needs to be house trained within a week. If not, either he goes or I do!” I think she really meant it! Jake clearly knew the score and did everything he could to win my mother over including being toilet trained in record time. My parents grew to love that dog. He was clever: he learned to push open the door when he wanted to come in and to close the door behind himself. He collected the newspaper for my father each morning from the letter box. He lived for 13 years and when he died, both my parents wept for the loss.
……AND REPEAT
I am ashamed to admit I used the same strategy again when, a few years later, my partner and I moved into our second home and I wanted to get a dog. He pointed out that as we were both working full time it wasn’t practical. I knew he was right, but persisted and brought home a puppy, hoping he would acquiesce as my parents had done. He was, in all fairness, furious and we had the biggest argument in our 30 years of being together. He even rallied support from my mum who, having been on the receiving end of my wilfulness in the past, knew exactly how my partner was feeling. But he eventually calmed down, Roly stayed and my partner grew to love her. Indeed, he even suggested we take on a second dog we knew of, that was needing re-homed and so Bunty became a companion for Roly. Lovely neighbours walked them at lunchtimes while I did mornings and evenings, so we made it work. Biscuit, our Jack Russell came along later, with everyone’s full agreement, when my twin daughters were seven, and she lived until they were 17. We had been dog-less for the six years since then, until my rash decision to enter the world of canine companionship once more.
Finlay the Cocker Spaniel on the beach in Islay, Scotland
THE GOOD BITS
Despite my complaints, it’s not all bad. Finlay has a lovely nature and is immensely amiable with almost any dog or person he meets. He is gorgeous looking. Everybody says it. We get stopped in the street and asked about him. One man even wound his car window down and said “That’s the most beautiful dog I’ve ever seen”. He is funny, when he gets ‘the zoomies’ racing around like a mad thing with a toy in his mouth. He is (mostly) obedient at home and has learned the all-important command, “Wait”: we use it a hundred times a day. He doesn’t jump up at guests anymore. He’s stopped chewing the furniture. When we say “Teatime!”, he goes and sits in his bed to wait until we’ve finished eating. I have to constantly remind myself that he is still young, and although wilful, has definitely calmed down and will continue to do so. Hopefully, in the not-too-distant future. In the meantime, we shall keep repeating our mantra, to ourselves, to each other and to anyone who asks how he is, “He’s getting better”, “He’s getting better”……
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