Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope

by Battersea Dogs

  Steve and I waited for a while and then it was our turn. We got chatting to a rehomer and I told her about Beni and how I’d had dogs all my life, from when I was a little girl, through my teenage years and now into adulthood. I told her how, in my mind’s eye, I’d envisaged a shaggy dog with a friendly face and a loving personality. A dog that would slot into our little family.

  After completing our interview and filling in our details, Steve and I were invited to look around the kennels but, sadly, we didn’t find what we were looking for. The next weekend, we returned and were strolling around when it happened. I didn’t find a dog – the dog found me.

  Molly was a black mongrel, and when she spotted me, her tail began to wag. Something about her enthusiasm put a smile on my face and Steve’s. Molly was six months old and as friendly as they come. I knew instantly she was going to be our new dog.

  Steve and I were shown to a meeting room and had a chance to play with Molly. The rehomer also brought a friendly cat into the room so that we would get an idea of how Molly would behave with one – we had to be sure she would be good with Steve’s cats. Molly glanced at the cat, which was kept safely inside a cat-carrier, then settled next to me, ignoring it entirely. She couldn’t have been any less fussed by the feline intruder in our midst – the ideal reaction. After a while, the carrier was opened and, again, Molly wasn’t interested. We arranged for a home visit from one of Battersea’s team, and a few days later he came to see us.

  As he looked around, he explained that Battersea treats every customer and the animal they would like to rehome on a case-by-case basis. ‘The animal’s welfare is our priority,’ he said. I could see that from the meticulous assessment he carried out. He checked our garden was secure, our home had more than enough room, and asked more about my background. I told him I was an experienced dog owner, having had dogs all my life. I patted my tiny bump, and he congratulated me with a smile. ‘We wouldn’t necessarily recommend that parents-to-be take on a new dog,’ he said, but I explained it would be several months before our baby arrived. He agreed that would be plenty of time for Molly to settle in.

  ‘Molly had a tough time before she arrived at Battersea,’ he began, ‘and she has a tendency to attention-seek so be firm with her. But, despite everything she has been through, she is a remarkably content and happy dog.’

  Molly had been given to Battersea because her owner’s other dog didn’t get along with her, but she had adapted easily to life in the kennels and was expected to settle comfortably into her new home environment. We were a perfect match for each other.

  ‘I can see that Molly is coming to a lovely home,’ the rehomer concluded. ‘I don’t have any concerns.’

  A week later, Steve went to Battersea to pick Molly up. I waited excitedly at home and paced around the house, unable to sit down or keep still. I’d already bought her a cosy bed so I tried it in the living room by the sofa, then in the kitchen by the door and was moving it around the hallway when I heard the key in the lock. Steve appeared with a beaming smile. At his feet, a black dog was wagging her tail furiously. Steve unclipped Molly’s blue Battersea lead. She bounded over to me and licked my hand. ‘Hello, Molly,’ I said. ‘Welcome to your new home.’

  Molly took stock of her surroundings and trotted to the kitchen to have a sniff around. Before I could follow her, she was back. She climbed into her bed, flopped down and snuggled in. ‘Well, I guess that’s her settled, then!’ I said.

  Steve laughed. ‘Quite. At least we won’t have to worry about her hiding behind the curtain or cowering away from us.’

  Molly made herself at home and, very quickly, we felt as if she had been with us for ever. Next morning, we took her for a walk around Tooting Common. After a while, observing her behaviour, I said: ‘Why does she keep doing that?’

  ‘Doing what, Caroline?’

  ‘Duck,’ I said. ‘She keeps ducking!’

  Steve and I paid close attention and realized that whenever Molly spotted things in the sky, like a pigeon flying overhead or a frisbee whizzing by, she ducked. ‘It’s like she’s never been outside,’ I said.

  We wondered if that really might have been the case. She didn’t seem to have any understanding of being outside and was shocked by people, cars and noise. We guessed she had spent a lot of time indoors and hadn’t really been walked or taken to a busy park. Even though she was a bit nervous on the first few walks, she soon got into the swing of them. When she began chasing pigeons, I told her: ‘That’s it, girl.’ She’d return to me out of breath, pink tongue lolling out, and look at me as if to say: This is quite fun, actually, Mum, isn’t it?

  We noticed other things that left us scratching our heads about Molly’s life before she’d come to us. Whenever Molly saw anyone in light clothing she’d rush over excitedly and try to climb up them, pawing at the person and whining softly. It made me wonder if her previous owner or perhaps someone she’d loved had often worn light colours.

  We expected that our dry-cleaning bill would spike for a few weeks as we apologized to other dazed passers-by who had unexpectedly been snuffled, pawed and now had dirty marks on their jacket or jeans. ‘I’m so sorry about Molly,’ I’d say. ‘She’s just come to us from Battersea and sometimes she gets a bit overexcited. Please allow me to get that dry-cleaned that for you.’ Every time, the person would graciously accept the explanation and, with a wave of their hand, dismiss the offer.

  Molly hated men in helmets just as much as she liked people in light colours. With Steve working as a motorbike courier, we learnt quickly that he should remove the helmet long before he reached our front door or Molly would go mad, barking at him.

  At home, she had an altogether different quirk. She didn’t know how to play.

  She had no interest in toys or the games you’d expect a dog to like, such as tug of war, or a bit of rough and tumble. My brother Jonathan had a novel solution to this: whenever he came over to our house, or when we popped up the road to his, he got down on his hands and knees, took one of Molly’s untouched toys in his mouth and rolled around in front of her. ‘Grrr, grrrr,’ he’d say, then drop the toy in front of her. ‘Come on, Molly! Play! Go on, just grab it.’

  Her tail was wagging because she knew this was fun, but she was still confused. Mum, what on earth is Uncle Jon doing? her eyes pleaded. Or perhaps she meant: Is that what you want me to do? I couldn’t tell for sure but Molly was a clever girl. After a few dates with Jonathan, Molly got the hang of playing. I found myself repeating his tactics and, instead of looking at me as though I was mad, Molly joined in.

  Molly and I were having so much fun getting to know each other that we grew incredibly close. I called her Molly the Mole because she was so black – her ears pricked up whenever I said it.

  That Christmas, Steve and I travelled to my mum’s house with the rest of my family. Mum’s home was down in the Wiltshire countryside and she had a large garden. I couldn’t figure out which excited Molly most – all the people giving her cuddles and love, or that lovely garden and the fields beyond it.

  We had a busy Christmas, the house crammed with friends and family. It felt so good to get away and catch up with old schoolmates. Early every morning, I took Molly for a long walk around the fields. Now instead of ducking when something flew past her head, she chased after it. She was really coming into her own. Back at Mum’s, Molly stuck to my side like my shadow but clearly enjoyed all the attention she got from everyone else.

  She was so patient with my niece too. No matter how much she bumped into Molly or screamed excitedly around her, Molly didn’t bat an eyelid. She was calm and moved slowly around the younger children present in a way that showed us she understood a sudden movement might frighten them. Even when they stroked Molly’s fur the wrong way, she would simply shake it off and wait for the next swipe of a tiny hand. It was heart-warming to see.

  Afterwards, we returned home to London and, as my bump grew and the due date loomed closer, I went through a phase of nesting
. I cleaned the house from top to bottom on most days and purchased a new rug with which I felt exceptionally chuffed.

  One morning I went upstairs to fetch the laundry, and when I returned to the living room, I gasped. The corner of my brand new rug had been chewed clean off! ‘Molly!’ I said, taking the remnants from her mouth. Firmly, I said: ‘No.’ Not that it dissuaded her. Molly continued chewing through the furniture, our telephone and even a remote control, but I knew from experience that a lot of young dogs were prone to it.

  Sure enough, she grew out of it quickly.

  In June, a rippling pain shot across my belly and snaked around my lower back. As my contractions became stronger, we dropped Molly at Jonathan’s house and headed to the hospital. After hours in labour, I was taken to theatre for an emergency Caesarean section and, eventually, our beautiful little girl, Ruby, was placed in my arms. I felt an overwhelming rush of love and wanted nothing more than to take our little girl home.

  After a few days on the postnatal ward, I was able to do just that. Molly was excited to see me and, after a curious sniff of Ruby, resumed normal duties, which included snoozing in bed or following me around.

  Steve didn’t have any paternity leave so within days I was on my own with Ruby. It wasn’t easy, having just had a C-section and without my mum nearby, but I managed.

  I felt a little isolated and lonely at times, as I’m sure many new mums inevitably do in the rare moments when the baby is asleep and you sit down in pure quiet. That’s when a pang of loneliness hits you. It was always in those minutes that Molly would come to find me and keep me company. She was a real comfort.

  There was one other problem, too. I couldn’t leave the house without Steve because I couldn’t get the buggy up and down the three steps to our front door because of my stitches. So I had to wait till Steve came home to take Molly for a walk with Ruby in her pram. By the time he arrived, Molly and I were equally desperate to get outside. I looked forward to those walks so much and I think Molly did too.

  Steve and I strolled arm in arm with Molly on the lead trotting next to me and our darling girl asleep in her pram. I adored those summer-evening walks, and was so happy we’d made the decision to get another dog when we had. Molly was with us at the beginning of our family time together. Life simply wouldn’t have been complete without her.

  She got a lot out of it too. Molly learnt that the best place to sit at mealtimes was next to Ruby in her high-chair, a prime carrot-purée-catching spot. Molly got covered with whatever Ruby was eating, and it wasn’t long before they both twigged that it was good fun. While they were in league together, I was left to clear up the mess the naughty twosome had made but, truthfully, I didn’t mind.

  When Ruby was three we had another daughter, Poppy, and as the girls grew, the games continued. I’d often be in another room in the house when I’d hear their giggles.

  Then one of the girls would come to find me and, tugging impatiently on my sleeve, say: ‘Come and look, Mum.’

  I’d follow her into the other room where I’d find Molly sitting quietly, her glittering fairy wings only outdone by the string of sparkling beads and feather boa around her neck. The girls would be falling about laughing and Molly would look at me with what might have been a frown: Please help me, Mum.

  But Molly loved the attention and she knew after the game of dress-up, something even better would follow: fetch, in the garden. By now we’d moved to a bigger house with a large garden for Molly and the girls. Ruby and Poppy took turns to throw the ball and Molly would leap to catch it, returning it to whichever sister was standing closer to her. She was instinctively gentle with them, and didn’t care when either girl was only able to throw it a few feet. She just loved them playing with her.

  Jonathan liked spending time at ours, and made the decision to get a dog, too. Off he went to Battersea and, soon after, brought home a Spaniel cross with white and black markings. His name was Parker, and he got on with Molly like a house on fire.

  Jonathan, his wife, Margie, their son, Charlie, Steve, the girls and I often packed our bags and drove all over the country for camping holidays. The kids and the dogs loved the trips away and so did we. We were in Wales one year when I woke in the very early hours with a sense of panic. Steve was frantically searching for something and his urgency – and noisy way of moving about and jostling the camp bed – had woken me.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said.

  ‘We have to find Molly – she’s gone.’

  I jumped out of bed and pulled on my boots as Steve started calling her in that loud whispering kind of way.

  Suddenly there was a burst of laughter.

  I raced out to find Steve clutching his sides as Jonathan appeared, half dressed, with a sheepish Molly at his side. Across the burnt-out fire he said: ‘If you’re looking for your dog, she woke me up at three o’clock and has been camped in our tent all night!’

  It turned out she’d found the zip keeping her inside our tent, nudged it up and sneaked out, then dashed across to Jonathan’s when she’d got spooked. He’d found her cuddled up with Parker.

  After we’d finished laughing, I got to thinking. I told Steve my idea and he agreed we should get Molly a playmate. She had the softest temperament and got on with every dog she met but, lately, I’d noticed something about her. I wasn’t the only one to see it. Ruby said: ‘Molly doesn’t like to play any more.’

  She was right.

  Our parrot, Pookha, regularly teased Molly by sneaking up and nibbling her, but Molly had become quite lazy and wouldn’t chase her off. She spent hours lying about. It felt like the right time for her and the girls to have a new friend.

  Poppy was mad about dogs, and Steve and I agreed that while she was still young enough to enjoy it, we should thinking about getting a young dog. I found myself looking at the dogs that needed homes on the Battersea website. I scanned the pictures and profiles and thought: Are you the one we’re looking for?

  Deep down, I’d set my heart on a Petit Basset Griffon Vendéen, a small, shaggy dog known for its friendly demeanour and I’d met a few on our camping trips. Months passed, and none was available for rescue at Battersea or any other rescue centre. These dogs rarely came up for adoption because the families who were lucky enough to have one hardly ever gave it up. I wanted to rehome another dog, but we were not finding what we were looking for and time was getting on.

  Then we had a stroke of luck. I heard that a local lady’s Basset had unexpectedly had puppies, which needed rehoming. I contacted her and we got chatting. She had two puppies left. ‘Why don’t you come and meet them?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ I said.

  When I dropped by, the lady showed me to the garden where, in a fenced-off area, two fluffy brown and white puppies were playing in the sunshine. I crouched down and they both came to say hello. Within a few seconds, one puppy had plonked itself down a few feet away and was looking around, but the other remained right next to me, nibbling my hand and waiting for more strokes. He was a lot like Molly had been at that age: friendly, curious and very loving. But I could also tell he was a bit of a scamp and very playful, like Beni had been as a puppy.

  The puppy had stolen my heart, but I told his owner: ‘I need to discuss this with my partner.’

  On the way home, I called Steve and told him all about the meeting, and the lovely puppy. ‘This is going to be a really good thing for Molly,’ he said.

  It seemed like Molly’s destiny.

  A week later, I picked up the puppy and we named him Hector. Molly, as usual, took everything in her stride. She sniffed him and he sniffed her. Hector took a couple of steps back and forward, jiggling around in front of her. Molly looked at me. Is that all he does, Mum? And then she went straight to her bed.

  Hector, however, was more curious about Molly. He followed her into bed, climbed on her back and tumbled down the other side. Molly didn’t so much as flinch and was soon fast asleep, with Hector still rolling around her. It was a relief t
o see how easily she’d taken to him – no fuss or bother. I knew then I’d made the right choice.

  Hours later, Ruby arrived home from school. I had wanted Hector to be a surprise so I held back a grin as I waited for her to notice him. She was telling me about her day when she clocked Hector in Molly’s bed. Her eyes snapped back to me. ‘Oh!’ she said. ‘What’s that puppy doing here?’

  ‘He’s ours,’ I told her. ‘Do you like him?’

  Ruby nodded furiously, then ran across the room to have a closer look.

  Moments later, Poppy came in and when she spotted what her sister was looking at, she gasped. ‘Are we looking after him?’

  I nodded.

  ‘Do we have to take him back?’

  This time I shook my head. ‘Hector is here to stay.’

  The girls were so excited that it took a while for the news to sink in. None of us could stop smiling.

  For the next few weeks, Hector was too little to run around with Molly but as he grew, she chased him around the garden. Hector teased her by nabbing her favourite ball and running away with it. For years, Molly had been quiet and not much of a barker. Now she was barking with excitement in the garden on most days, and there were times when I wanted to stop her running around. ‘She’ll have a heart attack at this rate!’ I told Steve.

  The truth was that Hector had given Molly a new lease of life, just as we’d hoped would be the case.

  As a child, I had always had a dog and I’m so glad Steve and I have been able to provide the same fun and joy for our children. My mum used to say: ‘A child must have a dog to play with.’

  I couldn’t agree more. It teaches them about life and death, caring and loss. It brings life lessons big and small and, for me, part of having a home is having a dog. I’d like to think the girls feel the same way.

  Molly and Hector have enriched our lives and our family doesn’t feel complete unless we’re all together.