When we took them out together, people would stop and ask to take pictures of our gorgeous Sam. Trying to get him to keep still long enough wasn’t easy. He was so nosy and was straight in there, sniffing at his admirers and investigating their cameras.
As he grew bigger and older, he developed a bit of a dominant streak, as was to be expected of an Akita cross. We set him up for doggy daycare once a week to get him used to other dogs of different sizes. It did the trick. But some of his Akita personality would never change. Whenever there was a knock at the door, Lucky would bark and race to it, telling us keenly: Someone is here! Sam’s method was different. He hung back until the visitor was in the house and he was close enough to check them out. Sometimes he’d get frustrated with Lucky and nudge her to be quiet. I’m sure he told Lucky many times in his own way: Wait a minute, Lucky. Let’s see what’s happening before we get stuck in.
He was much more of a guard dog, waiting to analyse the situation before acting.
So, between Lucky’s fearless approach and Sam’s natural wariness, Jim and I felt in safe hands. We knew if a burglar braved Lucky’s barking to get into our home, Sam would give them an unexpected fright once they were there.
As for friends and family who came to our home, Lucky’s excitement at seeing the familiar faces rubbed off on Sam. He took his cue from her and it was a tough job getting them to calm down. As time went on, Sam stopped taking his cues from Lucky and became his own man about the house.
Deep down, he was a softie and very intuitive. He was wary, and I guessed it was because of his breed. I reckoned that trait was likely to stay with him for ever. When we were out walking, if somebody was behind us, Sam kept one eye on them, one on the road ahead.
He also had a way of making other people confront their fears too, albeit without permission. Whenever my brother Arthur, who was terrified of dogs, plucked up enough courage to visit, Sam was oblivious to his nerves. As soon as he arrived, Sam would bound up to him and promptly take a seat on his lap. As the months passed and he grew heavier, he didn’t seem to grasp how big he was. He had no self-awareness. He became a stocky dog with lots of opinions. He’d tell you about his day, howl and chat. And if he wanted something, boy, would you know it!
Lucky didn’t let Sam push her around and, though she was 20 kilos to his 37.5, she wasn’t afraid of him. In fact, we had to tell her off for inciting Sam to go on the hunt for squirrels in the garden. She knew he would follow her lead, and when she wanted to, she got him into trouble.
It was a good thing Lucky was tolerant because Sam was protective but rough. When he was still a puppy he would nudge her this way and that, but when he’d grown up, he’d gallop over to her and throw himself on to her. That was how their friendship worked. We discovered that, as long as Sam had a toy in his mouth, like his favourite squeaky snake, they could run about together and be safe. The only time they came to blows was if Sam got too excited and didn’t have that snake nearby. Then he’d have a nibble at Lucky. She’d get annoyed and shy away. Sam would quickly realize he’d upset her and calm down until he’d won her over.
Although he could get on her nerves, he would never let any harm come to her.
Once we were in the park and a feisty dog came over, trying to get at Lucky. Sam didn’t growl or bark. He simply blocked it. Over and over, he stood between that dog and Lucky.
Sometimes his lack of self-awareness got the better of him. He loved playing with small dogs, which we put down to his happy relationship with Lucky. We found, though, that he wasn’t able to run around with them. He was too big and ended up bowling them over. After that had happened a few times, we kept him on a lead unless there weren’t any small dogs about. When bigger dogs were around, Sam had a tendency to growl. We told him off and, on the whole, he was all right. Once he was attacked by another big dog and, though he’s not usually aggressive, he defended himself.
Afterwards, it quickly became apparent that the fight had shaken him. Whenever he saw a big black dog, like the one that had got the better of him in the park, he’d have a shout and become aggressive. So, once a week, we sent him for a walk with a dog-walker, Steve, who took seven others with them. That problem was soon sorted out.
I learnt Sam was protective of me, too, and I reckoned that was the Akita in him. He had the stubborn and determined spirit seen in the breed. And though he had a tendency to be a bit aloof, he was very switched on when it mattered. Sam took a shine to some people, like my brother Arthur, and let them pet him straight away. There were others that he wouldn’t let near him.
One summer’s night, Jim and I took him for a walk, and on the way we passed a pub. It was a warm Saturday night and two guys were leaving on their way home. They were a bit the worse for wear, but when they saw us and Sam, they began chatting to us and telling us how beautiful Sam was.
Jim and I told them about Sam coming from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home, and they were fascinated by his story. But while we were talking, I became aware of something. They kept trying to pet Sam, but never seemed to connect with his fur. It wasn’t because they were so drunk that they were aiming incorrectly but because Sam was dodging their advances. He obviously hadn’t liked the look of them and was avoiding them. I reckoned Sam could tell they were drunk.
After a few minutes, Jim had spotted it too and both of us held back a laugh when our eyes met. Afterwards Jim told Sam, ‘You’re a smart boy.’ Sam gave a wag of his tail and went back to his walk.
The following Christmas, Lucky and Sam bounced around as I set up the tree and repeated our usual Christmas routine. That year, Sam got a bigger squeaky snake – he still carries it in his mouth at some point during most days.
Now he is two and a half and still bounds around like a puppy. Like most dogs, he’ll do anything for a treat, and if you keep him waiting, he’ll let out a yawn that stretches into chatter. Usually, that’s his way of saying: Come on, then!
Both Lucky and Sam have a basket in the bedroom with us now but the door is usually open and they go upstairs to the boys’ rooms whenever they’re home. Where one goes, the other usually follows, and it’s lovely seeing the bond the two of them share.
After Hamish, Sam is the best thing that could have happened to Lucky. She thinks so too.
The other week, Michael came home after two weeks away and wanted to say a proper hello first to Lucky, who had previously been very much his dog. He took her into the conservatory and shut the door to have a cuddle and give her some one-to-one attention.
Lucky wasn’t having any of it. She was pawing at the door and looking to Michael to act. She was telling him: Let him in, let him in, LET SAM IN! She loves Sam so much she can’t bear to be apart from him, if only for a few minutes.
It’s no wonder that Sam thinks he’s a VIP. He struts about the house and commands everybody’s attention. And, in truth, he is very important … to me, to Jim and most of all to Lucky.
Though, even now, Lucky still checks every Westie we meet, just to see if it’s Hamish. If we say his name, Lucky looks at us with the same question on her face: Where is he?
That’s why it’s so important that we brought Sam into our home and made him a part of our family.
Without Battersea, that would never have happened. They have such an excellent attitude towards helping the animals, and they were first class in helping us. The key for us was being honest about what we were looking for, and Battersea helped us find that special dog to be friends with Lucky. That initial meeting, to introduce Lucky to Sam, was the most vital part of our journey.
Now Sam is the biggest personality in the house. He hogs the sofa and howls at us when we don’t listen to him. But he is our Sam and we wouldn’t change him for the world.
2. Faith, Hope and Survival
A Shocking Discovery
Every Tuesday, I pulled on a familiar blue shirt and headed off to Battersea Dogs & Cats Home in Old Windsor. I had lived in Greece for many years, working with street and rescue dogs, then move
d to the UK with my husband. When we arrived, I missed my work so much that my husband said: ‘Helle, why don’t you do some volunteer work with Battersea Dogs & Cats Home?’
He’d planted the seed, and now my work as a volunteer at Battersea was my favourite time of the week. I was a dog walker and socializer at the Home, a dream come true: I loved working with particularly big or difficult dogs. I had completed my training, which enabled me to walk even the most challenging dogs, including those on behaviour programmes, and help them on their journey through the Home. I loved it.
A particular favourite was a girl named Foxy. She was a lovely Akita but, for some sad reason, she’d been waiting for a new family for more than ten months. I took her for a walk every week and got to know her well. She was a reserved dog, as Akitas often are by nature, and especially so around men. But when she got to know you, she was very playful and affectionate. Once she’d let you into her world, she was funny, sweet and quick to learn.
So, on Tuesdays, Foxy was usually the first I’d take for a long walk. We’d play with a ball in one of the off-lead areas in the compound to let off some steam, and then I’d snap on her lead, zip up my waterproof jacket and head out. We were lucky that the Old Windsor site was surrounded by rolling fields and beautiful walks along the Thames. The surrounding area was rural, with towpaths and meadows, plenty for dogs to sniff and see.
On one freezing cold day, we set off briskly out of the Battersea site, crossed the main road and went down the hill towards the river. Despite her strength, Foxy was lovely to walk. She never pulled you forward or tugged at her lead. We bounced along at a comfortable pace alongside the fields that stretched out to our left, and Foxy was enthralled by all the sights and smells. Usually, the fields were full of cows while the ditches were occupied by rabbits and other interesting little creatures.
Foxy was sniffing around as usual when suddenly she began investigating something seriously, pulling hard and trying to get under the barbed wire separating us from the dipped area that led into the field beyond. I resisted her for a while, thinking it was a dead rabbit or something else I’d rather not see. But when she continued tugging, I gave in and had a quick look.
What I saw made me gasp. There, in the ditch next to the barbed wire, was an emaciated dog.
She was so thin that I thought she must be dead. But then she moved her head. She was in the most appalling state and barely hanging on in the cold.
Foxy looked at me with eyes that said: What’s going on?
I reached into my pocket to grab my phone and dial Battersea for more hands to help, when I remembered I’d left it charging back in the staff room. It was Murphy’s Law. We had to keep our mobiles on us in case there was an emergency, and the one morning I really needed mine its battery had packed up as my shift had begun.
I knew that the dog needed immediate help, but I was worried she’d disappear if I went to fetch someone. There wasn’t any other choice though so I sprinted back to the Home with Foxy and we burst into Reception. I was gasping but managed to explain what we’d found, hoping and praying the dog wasn’t capable of running away because, if she disappeared, I was certain she’d die.
Her situation was upsetting but there was no time to dwell on that. I took Foxy back to her kennel and, with two other members of staff, headed out once more with blankets in hand to bring the dog in.
She was quite difficult to locate the second time, without Foxy’s exceptional sense of smell, but in the end we found the ditch and climbed carefully over the barbed-wire fence.
The dog was still there, curled up in a ball. Although I’d been running around and was wearing thick layers, my cheeks and fingers ached from the cold and I could only imagine how frozen that dog was without an ounce of fat on her to keep her warm.
I stood by as the two members of staff carefully wrapped her in a blanket and lifted her up. She screamed in fear.
We returned to Battersea and took her straight to the clinic where a vet and a nurse were waiting. As we took a good look at the dog, we were all horrified. The vet, Paul, said: ‘This is the worst state I’ve ever seen a dog in.’
Even for me, having spent years in Greece where that type of find was common, it was one of the most extreme cases of emaciation in a dog I’d ever seen. We reckoned she was a Great Dane and she should have weighed around forty kilos. On the scales, we saw she weighed just fifteen. ‘How is she still alive?’ I wondered.
‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ Paul said.
It was frightening even to touch her because she was like a skeleton and we worried we’d hurt her. We gave her some dog biscuits, which she gobbled, then stood her up to examine her – she had no wounds or cuts. When we saw she was able to hold herself up, we tried walking her the few steps to the kennel in the block adjacent to the clinic for sick dogs. She took three steps and collapsed. She was too weak even to lift her legs and get into the bed we’d set up for her in the kennel – the edge was only three inches high – so we got rid of it and padded an area with soft warm duvets instead.
She was filthy but we couldn’t clean her up – she was too poorly for that – and as soon as we placed her on the duvets, she let out a big sigh and her eyes began to close. It was as if she knew she was finally safe.
As she settled in, the girls and I entered her details on to the database and set about picking a name for her. Around Christmas, it was quite normal for us to pick festive names but I said: ‘Can we name her something that isn’t so cheesy?’
We had a think and one of the girls said: ‘What about Faith?’
It was perfect, given how much hope we needed even to dream that she would survive.
I returned home that night, drained. Instead of waiting a week to go in for my usual Tuesday shift, I found myself back at Battersea two days later. I checked in on Faith: she’d been cleaned up and was tentatively on her feet, her tan fur visible, along with her ribcage, but I was relieved to see her up and about.
I spoke to Paul, who told me Faith was at the start of a long road to recovery. He explained that when a dog is as malnourished as Faith, the sudden introduction of a normal amount of food could overload her system: to begin with, she was to be fed little and often. Even though she was hungry and demolished anything remotely edible that came her way, she would have small meals, specially prepared, throughout the day. The clinic had arranged a tailored feeding plan to get Faith, who was eleven or twelve months old, back to health without sending her system into shock.
Every week, I saw Faith improve. She had a sparkle in her eyes and was proving to be a lovely, happy dog, in spite of her ordeal. It was amazing how quickly she was recovering emotionally from what she’d been through: she trusted the people around her at Battersea. Everybody loved her.
Her story had touched a lot of people, and I wasn’t surprised when I heard a friend of the Home – an experienced Great Dane rescuer – had stepped in to adopt her.
But, as we headed into early December, there was a delay. Faith’s new owner, Annie, had been rushed to hospital for emergency surgery. Faith was in need of special care and, although she was steadily gaining weight, she was still rather weak so I offered to foster her until Annie was better.
As is normal procedure, two of the foster co-ordinators from Battersea brought Faith to my home to check how she would interact with my dogs: Nelly, a Greek rescue, and Henry, a five-month-old Golden Retriever. Faith growled and lunged at them, and we were concerned that my home wasn’t right for her. Then, as I studied her body language, I saw that Faith wasn’t being aggressive, she was just an under-socialized dog.
I told the foster co-ordinators my plan and they agreed to leave Faith with me: I’d fostered many dogs in my time and was experienced at it.
I used a baby gate to separate Faith from Nelly and Henry so they could all see but not get at each other. Within a day, Faith had calmed down and I was able to let her mix with my dogs under supervision. She had no idea how to play with toys such as tennis b
alls, or even with other dogs, and was only interested in food.
Henry, though, as a young puppy, was determined to play with his new friend. He ran towards Faith, then ducked away at the last moment, gently yapping at her as if to say, Come on! until, eventually, she joined in. Thereafter they raced around the garden regularly, and the only time they weren’t together was when Faith caught a whiff of one of my fruit trees and ran to the back of the garden to eat the windfall apples. She was still constantly foraging, and though she was gaining weight, it was a continuous reminder that she had been starving for a long time before we found her.
Two weeks passed and, early in December, Annie was ready for Faith. I took her back to Battersea and had a bit of a hard time letting her go. She was a special girl and I had a real soft spot for her because she’d been so ill. I knelt down and said: ‘Good luck, Faith. Be a good girl. I love you.’ Then I handed her over to a rehomer and walked away, as the tears stinging my eyes threatened to spill over.
When I glanced back, Faith was standing to attention and watching me with an expression that could only have meant: Where are you going?
That was what I found so hard about fostering. The dog doesn’t know it’s a temporary arrangement so it gets attached to you, as it would to its loving owner. My only comfort was that I knew where Faith was going: she would live a comfortable and happy life.
I returned to my regular Tuesdays, and Foxy was still waiting for our walks. In time, a man and his son fell in love with her and, though she was still wary of men, they were determined to give her a good life. They returned to the Home every day for weeks to spend hours with Foxy, taking her for walks and playing with her until she trusted them and was ready to go home.
It was lovely to see an owner so dedicated to Foxy and I knew she was in safe hands.
Months later when she returned to Battersea with her new owners for a spot of filming for Battersea, she recognized me from afar. Instead of looking at the camera, as she had been, she was now staring intently at me and wagging her tail. It was heart-warming that she remembered me, and it’s moments like that and even the goodbyes, like the one with Faith, that make volunteering at Battersea so worthwhile.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 3
