It made my heart twist. Lucky was only six, too young to be alone for the rest of her life.
One day I told Jim: ‘I think we should get another dog for Lucky.’
He said, ‘You’re right, Anna.’
Although we said we were doing it for Lucky, there was another reason: we couldn’t bear to discuss the emptiness Hamish’s death had left in our home. Talking about it would have made it too real.
Day after day, we logged on to Battersea Dogs & Cats Home’s website, looked at the pictures and read the descriptions of every dog that needed a loving home. We were supposed to take it in turns, but I couldn’t stay off the site. I didn’t know exactly what I was looking for, but I was certain that when the right dog came along, I’d just know it.
And every time I saw one that I thought might be right, the same thing happened: I’d call only to find another lucky owner had taken it. I was happy the dog had found a loving home so quickly, but yearned for a new set of paws in our house too.
Months passed, and autumn stretched into winter. In the mornings, the windows were speckled with condensation and outside the air was crisp. It was the time of year when Jim would go into the loft and pull out a box that jingled and jangled and was covered with glitter, along with our Christmas tree. As always, I set it up in our living room and slowly, bauble by bauble, decorated it. Every year I rotated the colours, and this year it was going to be red and gold.
While I strung on the lights and set to work with the decorations, Lucky lay down and watched me. She was so good around the tree and never got in the way. But I could tell she was sad. Usually, she’d come up and have a little sniff and explore the items now scattered around me. Looking into her soulful brown eyes, I sent up a Christmas prayer.
Please let us find a playmate for our darling girl.
Afterwards, I filled stockings for Jim, our sons Michael, twenty-nine, and Andrew, twenty-six, and one for Lucky, too. I placed them in the middle of the dining-room table and was about to go to bed when, suddenly, I caught sight of Hamish’s empty stocking. I filled it with toys and treats and set it atop the others, just in case.
The house was ready when, three days before Christmas, a new post on the Battersea website caught my eye. It was a picture of a gorgeous, champagne-coloured puppy. I wasn’t sure if a puppy would be right for us but I reckoned it was worth a call to Battersea.
I talked to the lady at the other end for a long time. Finally, I hung up and dialled Jim’s number. When he answered, I told him: ‘I’m going to Battersea tomorrow morning.’
He laughed. ‘That’s that settled then.’
We agreed to go with Lucky, Michael and Andrew, both home for the Christmas break.
I returned home from work with a printout and a heart full of hope. I showed Jim the puppy’s details and read the short description again. As we ummed and aahed, I had a funny tingling in my bones. This was the one.
The next day, instead of preparing food or wrapping the final presents, I loaded Lucky into the car and, with Jim, Andrew and Michael, left our home in Kent for Battersea. Just over an hour later, we were at the Home’s reception desk with butterflies in our bellies. I was certain Lucky sensed that something exciting was about to happen because – all around us dogs were barking and chatting – she looked at me as if to say, What’s going on, Mum?
We met Michelle, one of Battersea’s rehoming team, and she took us into a meeting room. When we’d settled in, she said, ‘I’ll be right back.’
Lucky had a snoop around the room, then sat by my side, her tail swishing softly across the floor. She sensed something good was coming and looked at me expectantly every thirty seconds.
Minutes later, the door opened and Michelle was back. In her arms was a panting, beautiful ball of light-coloured fur. Two curious brown eyes stared at us through the most endearing black patches. The puppy had long legs and large paws, and was simply gorgeous. There and then, I fell in love with him.
‘This is Cupid,’ Michelle said. ‘Cupid and the rest of his litter were named after Father Christmas’s reindeers.’ She set him down and carefully introduced Lucky to him.
At first, Cupid was full of beans and confidence but when he and Lucky took a whiff of each other he shied away. Lucky knew what to do. She went over to him and wagged her tail. She didn’t crowd him. Instead, she hunkered down a bit and wagged her tail again.
That did it.
Cupid jumped up at her playfully and she raced back to where I was sitting.
Her tail was going ten a penny as she looked at us, then Cupid. I said: ‘Do you like him, Lucky?’
Her body language told me what she was thinking: Do you see him, Mum? Can you see him? She padded back to him and it was clear she had read the situation right. Cupid was a bit scared but still playful.
As we watched them together, Michelle said, ‘I don’t think those two will have any problem getting along.’
That much was clear. And since Lucky had been my test as to whether or not we would bring a puppy home, she had sealed the deal for us.
She played with him and he played back. Whenever he got scared, Cupid would run along the wall until he reached a corner, then ducked low. There, he looked towards us with those gorgeous eyes: What’s going on? The poor little puppy was confused, but the moment we spoke to him and offered a few words of gentle encouragement, he’d run back to us for cuddles.
Lucky persisted, too, and, though Cupid was wary, she was patient with him and, in turn, Cupid was lovely with her. Despite his fear, he so obviously wanted to be loved. Over and over, he flitted between us and Lucky, taking strokes and pats from us, sniffs and snuffles from Lucky. As he wiggled his tail and bravely tried to shake off the fear that gripped him every few minutes, the boys and I learnt about Cupid’s background.
Cupid had been one in a litter of eight brought to Battersea days earlier having been rescued after they were abandoned. It wasn’t certain if all would survive but Cupid was healthy and had been able to have his injections. He was ready for rehoming.
We learnt that he was an Akita, Foxhound and Staffie cross, hence his unusual handsome looks, and he was likely to grow to a decent size.
We might have been worried, but seeing Lucky and Cupid rolling around together, we knew it was a match made in heaven, and so did the Battersea rehomer who introduced us.
Cupid was meant to be our boy.
I filled out the paperwork and our sons helped put Lucky and Cupid in the car. While I drove, Cupid sat in the back between the boys and Lucky. Though I’d come prepared with a towel, in case he was carsick on the way home, he was a little star. Lucky was keeping an eye on him and mothering him.
When we arrived home, I pulled into the drive, and while Michael took Lucky indoors, Andrew scooped Cupid up and carried him. He set Cupid on the carpet in the hallway and Jim dropped to his knees to talk to our puppy. ‘Wow,’ he said. ‘Look at your new home, Cupid.’
Cupid and Jim had a moment together, then Jim said: ‘He’s going to be a big boy. You know that, don’t you?’
I looked at Cupid’s gangly legs and laughed.
By now, it was late into the afternoon, and as the evening stretched out, Lucky was still keeping a careful eye on Cupid. As soon as he moved, she followed him. They played and rolled around the living room together and, suddenly, our home was alive again. I hadn’t seen Lucky looking and acting so young in months. It was a joy to watch.
When Cupid played with Lucky, he still had a puppy’s lack of control. He charged at her on his spindly legs and tried to knock her off her feet. When that didn’t topple her, he pounced on her to get the better of her. Not that she minded. After a couple of hours, they were both worn out. As we all settled into the living room, we got to talking about Cupid’s name. We wanted to give him a different one. We knew Cupid had some Akita in him and that the breed is originally from Japan so we tried to think of a Japanese name.
Michael said: ‘What about Gizmo?’
I l
aughed. ‘We’re not calling him Gizmo.’
Andrew said: ‘Well, what about Samurai?’
But Jim and I wanted a short one.
‘OK,’ Andrew continued, ‘what about Sam, short for Samurai?’
It was perfect, and that was how Cupid became Sam.
That night, as Sam’s initial excitement began to settle, he came over all funny. And he was sick several times. I picked up the phone and called Battersea’s helpline and talked things over with a member of staff. She advised me that it was probably all the nerves and excitement of the day catching up with him. ‘He should be better in the morning after a good sleep,’ she said, ‘but if not, call us back and we’ll see what’s best to do.’
We were on the phone for half an hour. Eventually, weary but reassured, I wished her a very merry Christmas and bade her farewell.
Jim and the boys went to midnight Mass. Twenty minutes later, after checking on Sam again, I finally went to bed in our downstairs bedroom across the way from the kitchen. I tossed and turned and could hear Sam doing the same. He howled and whined almost incessantly. From experience I knew it was best to leave him to get used to our home, but I didn’t sleep a wink.
Before I knew it, it was five thirty a.m., the time I usually got up to walk the dogs.
Unsurprisingly, I was the first up. Lucky, who slept in the bedroom, was excited to get into the kitchen and see her new friend. In fact, she nudged me to hurry me up as I turned on the Christmas tree lights.
Next, I went into the kitchen, where we’d shut Sam in using a piece of plywood as a gate. I found him in his basket, asleep. Lucky padded in and roused him with a big lick. As he stretched and yawned, I was relieved to see he was feeling better and hadn’t been ill again in the night.
I let the pair of them out into the garden and, watching them together, I felt so very blessed that our new boy had arrived just in time for Christmas. It was usually Lucky’s favourite time of year, as she liked nothing better than a busy house, and I was delighted to see that spring in her step. Sam was already giving her a new lease of life.
The boys soon joined us, and after breakfast, I put the turkey into the oven and headed to church, leaving my menfolk to watch Sam.
I returned to hear bursts of laughter in the living room. There, my grown sons were on the floor with Sam. He was jumping all over them and Lucky was playing along too.
I set about cooking. Every now and then, a wet nose or a swishing tail would bump against my legs.
When Sam and Lucky were napping, we sat down for our dinner but the smell of the food must have woken them up. Lucky was always well behaved and knew better than to sit beside us and beg. But Sam didn’t have much of an idea what to do or what not to do. At first, he scurried around under the table, occasionally rising to his back legs and placing his head and paws on our laps. Each time, we gently returned him to all fours. But when he saw Lucky sitting and waiting patiently, he did the same. When we reached the pudding course, Sam had a lick of cream.
Afterwards, I went to the kitchen where the dogs’ bowls were and called Lucky. She raced in and Sam followed, as I’d thought he would. I placed some turkey, vegetables and a dash of gravy in each of their bowls and they tucked in. It was the perfect time for the rest of us to get started on our presents.
Most years, that would have been the highlight of the day, but this year, the atmosphere was very different. Before long, Sam and Lucky had finished their dinner and were trampling over us and the presents. I fetched Lucky’s stocking and the spare one I’d filled days earlier and, with Jim and the boys, helped the new friends discover their presents.
They both had a squeaky snake, and as I watched Sam bouncing over the living room in sheer delight at all the company and love, I melted. I’d always told my boys when they were children that you shouldn’t get a pet for Christmas, but with Sam arriving hours earlier, Christmas felt extra special and it was all because of him.
Lucky was so lively and the two of them spent the rest of the evening playing tug of war. In between their battles, they chased rolled-up balls of wrapping paper and we all had a good laugh at Sam bouncing all over the place. With the two black patches on his eyes, he looked almost comical.
We tried to watch a festive film, as we always did on Christmas Day, but how could we when the star of the show was Sam? He grabbed our attention, and we took turns to play with him, unable to resist his adorable face.
Christmas Day revolved around Sam.
Every now and then, Sam would stop and take stock of his surroundings. It was as though he was remembering the traumatic first few months of his life, then wondering where he was and why this home felt so different from the others he’d spent time in.
At times, he seemed a bit scared, so we moved his little bed in front of the telly so we could keep an eye on him while we relaxed.
By the time night fell, and the more we cuddled, stroked and played with him, Sam’s episodes of wariness faded as he realized we all had nothing but love to give him.
Lucky was exhausted too. Usually, she could chase a ball all day long and not run out of steam, but with Sam in the house she’d met her match, and by the evening, the pair were fast asleep.
Long before midnight we went to our own beds, tired and happy.
As the days passed, Sam settled in. He and Lucky became inseparable. Sam was easy to toilet-train, which was a blessing. A fortnight later, Jim underwent a scheduled surgery on his hip and had just returned home when something odd happened to me.
In the middle of the night, Jim nudged me. ‘Can you feel that?’
‘Yes, of course I can,’ I said.
We looked down at my legs, as they twitched and jerked violently.
‘My legs are doing the River Dance,’ I joked.
But it was no laughing matter. I was rushed to hospital where a scan showed two discs in my back had burst. Though my situation was serious, the first thing I thought of was Sam. We’d only just got him and now I was out of action. How would we cope? Would we have to give him up?
It was a hideous notion: we were all thoroughly in love with him.
For the moment, I had to put that thought aside.
My consultant told me I needed emergency surgery to clear up the burst discs and fix my spine in place with rods. When I told him about Jim’s recent operation and Sam, our new puppy, the consultant said, ‘Don’t worry. You’ll need to do as much walking as possible after this surgery to rebuild your strength. Sam may be the best medicine for you.’
It was such a relief, and with that extra knowledge, my mind was made up. We were keeping Sam. Having two dogs to walk would make me get up and about, and in the meantime, it would encourage Jim to keep moving and strengthen his hip.
My surgery was a success, and three days later I was at home. I couldn’t sit, only stand, walk or lie down. To my delight, Sam took his cues from Lucky. When I took them for walks together, Sam paid attention to how Lucky was walking, leaving her lead slack and not racing ahead. It took him a couple of goes to get the hang of it, but with a few firm words, he was doing the same.
Although I’d initially been worried as to how Jim and I would cope, given his surgery and mine, things worked out well. The dogs were a blessing, getting Jim up in the night to be let out and making him mobilize his hip, even if he was using a walking stick, and keeping me on my feet during the day, relieving the pressure on my spine. Which was just as well: long after Jim had healed and gone back to work, I still couldn’t tolerate sitting. It kept me off work and, without Lucky and Sam to keep me company, I would have been very lonely indeed.
Between playing in the garden and our long walks in the morning and evening, Lucky showed Sam the ropes. As a puppy, she’d chewed through everything, including a Persian carpet, but Sam seemed to know not to do that, and if he ever had a destructive moment, Lucky would stop him.
When she went out into the garden, Sam followed. She taught him to fetch the ball when we threw it and bring it back t
o us. Sam learnt it was nicer to play on the grass and stayed off the patio, where our outdoor furniture was, by following Lucky: she stuck to the softer areas.
Some things about Sam rubbed off on Lucky, and that wasn’t so good. She began to display some defensive traits when her comrade in arms was around. I could see the two of them were becoming a bit too boisterous when they were together so I had to remind Lucky that she couldn’t behave like that. We went through a phase when I was telling Lucky off a lot for being a bit naughty, but it didn’t last long.
Lucky and Sam were the best of friends. They tore round the house together, chasing each other this way and that before collapsing in a heap and taking a well-earned rest.
As Sam grew bigger and stronger, he became pushy with Lucky. She tolerated his behaviour, like a big sister putting up with her sometimes annoying (not so) little brother.
At nap times, Sam would shove Lucky out of her much-smaller bed and jam himself into it. Lucky would gruffly pad over to Sam’s before resuming her nap. It was a nuisance, but she didn’t fight him over it: she simply sacrificed her spot.
In the evenings, when I gave them identical treats, Sam would drop his and grab Lucky’s out of her mouth. At first, she let go of hers and picked up his instead. I told Sam off in the beginning but then I noticed something. As the battle for treats continued, Lucky and Sam made it into a game. Instead of relinquishing her treat, Lucky clamped her jaw and, with the treat sticking out of her mouth, tried to tempt Sam with it. He’d drop his and make a beeline for hers and the two would tussle, her growling, him whining, before Lucky gave in.
It was a fun game they both enjoyed so I left them to it. It was wonderful to see Lucky being playful and having a good time again. Who was I to break up their games?
Lucky was her old self. Her tail was constantly upright, she was lively and excited once more to go for walks and play in the garden.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 2
