Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope

by Battersea Dogs

  On Christmas morning I gave the boys their presents. I called Ted and placed a long, thick wrapped parcel in front of both dogs. Scrappie was straight on one end and Ted on the other. Seconds later, the festive wrapping was in shreds around us as Scrappie and Ted played tug of war with the colourful soft, knotted rope they now had in their jaws. It was good they had something to occupy them because Scrappie had been rummaging about under the Christmas tree ever since we’d arrived for the wrapped-up treats he could smell.

  After Christmas dinner, which the boys slept through, we were all ready for a walk. It was a Christmas tradition for our family to head to the beach nearby with Ted and Willow. Scrappie was thrilled to see so many other dogs about and wanted to play with them all. But the minute his paws touched the cold water, he yelped and retreated at lightning speed. Unlike Ted, he hated it. I watched as Scrappie raced from dog to dog, convinced they all wanted to play, and when he barked, Ted barked too. Scrappie knew just how to lead Ted on, and after a while, I asked Dave to bring them in so we could go back to the house.

  After the Christmas festivities, we returned home to Hampshire and, during the day, the boys played on our land. Every morning, they joined me to check on the sheep – twenty-five ewes and five lambs – and, to my delight, Scrappie followed Ted’s example and didn’t cause any trouble. They made me squirm when they ate sheep poo, but I was happy we’d been able to give Scrappie such a lovely, carefree lifestyle.

  At the right time, I went into labour and soon returned home with our son, Oliver. When we got back from the hospital, Dave and I placed Oliver, still in his car seat, on the living-room rug. We didn’t want to make a fuss but Ted and Scrappie needed to understand there was a new person in the house. They both rushed over, their tails wagging, and sniffed Oliver and his seat. When they realized he was a living, breathing thing, they were curious, but it wasn’t long before they lost interest. We never left Oliver on his own with the dogs, and whenever they were near him, we were within grabbing distance. At night, we locked them into the kitchen so we knew they wouldn’t venture upstairs to Oliver’s room if he was crying.

  With good reason: whenever Oliver cried, Ted was beside himself. He’d always been the type to rush to the TV if he heard a cry and now it was happening in his house.

  He would rush to Oliver and then to me, begging me to follow him. When I reached Oliver, Ted got under my feet but I didn’t tell him off. He was only worried and, in time, he calmed down. It was a matter of weeks before Ted figured out, as always long after Scrappie, that Oliver was not only here to stay, but his cries would be the recurring soundtrack in our home. He was soon ignoring them.

  Now whenever Oliver is in my arms or on my lap, Ted will rest his head nearby and sniff Oliver’s foot. Scrappie ignores him completely. He doesn’t ignore Ted, though. I still find the pair of them playing in the kitchen and, when they think nobody is watching, snuggling up together in the living room. Scrappie is everything we hoped he would be for Ted, and now that Dave and I are busy with Oliver, he’s a godsend.

  I’m so glad we went back to Battersea and were matched up so perfectly. Seeing Helen that day and learning about her experience with Scrappie had been the deciding factor. I’m grateful to her and Battersea for helping our family grow in such a perfect way. In return, it is our pleasure to give Scrappie the life he deserves, after his shocking start, in a warm and loving home.

  9. Start as You Mean to Go On …

  With the crowds heaving closer around me, I reached to the ground and pulled a furry little form into my arms. With my Jack Russell Johnny Reggae safely tucked next to me, I began to sing, with the hundreds of other people around me.

  This star drew nigh to the north-west;

  O’er Bethlehem it took its rest,

  And there it did both stop and stay,

  Right over the place where Jesus lay.

  Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel,

  Born is the King of Israel.

  It was my favourite Christmas carol and, despite the freezing temperatures, people had gathered for as far as the eye could see outside my local shopping centre to sing together at a charity fundraiser for a homeless centre.

  Our breath shot out in puffs of swirly mist and our fingers ached from the cold, but when we met our neighbours’ eyes we all smiled. It didn’t matter that we were cold because it was Christmas and the air was zinging with excitement. A huge tree had been erected in the town centre, shimmering and sparkling with colourful lights and decorations.

  Our singing continued and we all stared, mesmerized, at the open-top double-decker bus parked to one side: on the top deck the Archbishop of Canterbury led us in the carols and it was a wonderful, beautiful way to get ready for Christmas. The crowd around me boosted a local choir and, together, our voices soared into the night sky.

  It was especially sweet for me because, in my arms, Johnny Reggae listened patiently and gazed around with eyes wide as dinner plates, soaking up the sights, sounds and smells. I could tell my boy was enjoying this as much as I was.

  My husband Nick and I had adopted Johnny Reggae from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home a month earlier. He was seventeen and had had a hard life, but we were determined to give him every comfort and treat to see out his twilight years.

  Nick was a divorce lawyer and I was a marketing consultant. We had toyed with the idea of getting a dog for a long time, and when I saw Johnny Reggae’s profile on Battersea’s website for six weeks in a row, I’d realized I wanted to be the one to give him a home. As soon as we’d picked him up he’d become the centre of our universe. We loved him to bits and so did everyone who knew us.

  Now, the carol service had got me well and truly in the mood for Christmas, and a few days later, we packed our things and took Johnny Reggae to Liverpool to stay with Nick’s parents over the festive period. My parents joined us there too and our newest family member took it all in his stride.

  By Christmas Eve, everyone was saying Johnny Reggae was the best dog ever.

  I told them: ‘I know I’m biased but you are so right!’ He was such a survivor and always made the right decision for himself. If a door was about to shut, he knew which side to be on when it did – if the kitchen was on one side, he’d choose that side because he loved his food and was led by the nose.

  Johnny Reggae was spoilt rotten with treats and scraps from everyone at the dinner table. My parents adored him, my mum especially. Whenever she saw him, she said: ‘Hello, my little pavement special.’ She called him that because we weren’t quite sure what mix he was. But it was very much a term of endearment.

  On Christmas morning, my in-laws, parents, Nick and I gathered downstairs in the lounge by a beautiful gold-and-red-themed tree with dozens of presents crammed underneath. I reached in and grabbed a soft one I’d wrapped earlier for Johnny Reggae. I opened it and everyone laughed as I held out a miniature Father Christmas outfit, complete with a red cape and fur-trimmed hood. ‘Sorry, Johnny,’ I said, ‘but I’ve got to see you in this.’

  I pulled him into my lap and slowly dressed him in it. Once it was on, I turned him to face the waiting family and everyone was grinning. ‘Don’t you look great!’ I told him.

  But Johnny Reggae turned to me and let out a grumble. He refused to move and I could tell he hated the outfit. I took some pictures of him in it and could tell he was embarrassed, the poor soul.

  That was the first and only time he growled at me. But it was harmless. Johnny Reggae had lost a lot of his teeth due to infection so he didn’t have a single pair top and bottom that touched. It was his way of making clear his feelings on that outfit. I called him to me, and he co-operated while I took it off, standing still or lifting his leg when he needed to.

  Once the outfit was off, Johnny Reggae didn’t speak to me for a few minutes but he forgave me soon after. It just added to the fun.

  As time went on, I learnt that he didn’t like a fuss being made of him. He hated having his coat brushed and he definitely wasn’t a lapdog. But
without even trying, he made everyone he met fall in love with him. Even Nick, a no-nonsense Yorkshireman, was putty in Johnny Reggae’s paws and they both knew it.

  The moment Nick arrived home from work, Johnny Reggae raced to the larder where he knew his treats were kept. He had a problem with his spine that meant his tail didn’t wag so instead his whole body moved from side to side. Whenever Nick treated him, he told me: ‘It’s ridiculous but I just can’t resist that little face of his!’

  Behind his soft moments, we came to understand Johnny Reggae’s true nature. Despite the arthritis he suffered from, he was happy to go for two walks a day and trot along.

  We took him for weekend breaks in the country or to the beach. He always wore the same defiant look on his face: Yeah … not fussed. Though he’d lived in London and we reckoned he probably hadn’t seen any of these new things, he took everything in his stride.

  When Johnny Reggae had an opinion, he told us loud and clear. If he didn’t fancy a walk one day, he’d dig his heels in and refuse to budge from the front door. As time went on, he grew stiffer in his joints, hard of hearing, struggled to see and preferred snuffling around the garden. We put up screens to stop him hurting himself on the rosebushes so he’d find a spot in the sunshine and lie in it till he baked.

  It brought me a lot of happiness to see him living the dream. He knew he’d lucked out when he came home to us and luxuriated in it. But I felt we were the ones who’d lucked out. Nick and I had spent many years building successful careers and finding the perfect home. We’d whizzed through life at such a fast pace that sometimes we didn’t give ourselves time to enjoy the simple things we took for granted: a walk in the sunshine or relaxing at home.

  It was only when Johnny Reggae had come to stay for good that we realized what we’d been missing out on. I cut back my hours and Nick worked from home whenever he could.

  We were around in case Johnny Reggae needed us, and instead of pampering him, which he hated, we treated him to lovely food. To soothe his joints, we gave him oily fish.

  Johnny Reggae had a ferocious appetite and downed food like a gannet. To help him burn off the weight he was so prone to gaining, I liked to walk him around the grounds of Canterbury Cathedral, which wasn’t too far from our home. I loved the beautiful gardens and sometimes I’d sneak into the back of the cathedral with Johnny Reggae in my arms and we’d listen to choral evensong. When I held him close to me and savoured the beautiful singing – goose-bumps racing up and down my arms – Johnny Reggae closed his eyes and listened. It was loud enough for him to hear and feel. Afterwards, we’d take a seat on a bench in the cathedral’s gorgeous walled garden and catch the last of the evening’s sunshine. It was planted in such a way that all year round flowers would bloom.

  Though we were trying to give Johnny Reggae the best in life, our lives were changing too. I was looking at things in a different light and appreciating things in a new way, things I probably wouldn’t have noticed before, like the evensong or the pretty flowers in the garden.

  In time, Johnny Reggae lost his sight completely. At home, we carried him up the garden stairs and set him down on the soft grass, then pulled plant pots in front of the steps to stop him trying to go up them. He learnt to get around.

  His second Christmas was more subdued than the previous year. He was listless and didn’t have any energy. I didn’t tease him with that outfit and nothing we did or gave him roused his interest. On New Year’s Eve, I abandoned dinner to take him to the vet.

  ‘Stephanie, his liver isn’t working properly,’ the vet told me, ‘but these pills should help.’

  I took the prescription and Johnny Reggae home. Weeks passed, then months, and Johnny Reggae seemed to have lost his fight.

  After a trip to Liverpool to see Nick’s parents, we took him to the vet once more.

  The vet examined him. ‘He seems a bit dehydrated. Have you moved his water bowl?’

  While we’d been with Nick’s parents, Johnny Reggae hadn’t remembered where his water bowl was and couldn’t see it so now he was dehydrated. I felt guilty that I hadn’t noticed and panicked that the mistake would cost Johnny Reggae dearly. We’d taken him on knowing we wouldn’t have years and years with him, but now I didn’t think I’d ever be ready to let him go.

  Johnny Reggae was put on a drip and when I picked him up the next day, he was a new man. He was full of beans and had a new lease of life. It was such a relief. He pottered the days away in the garden, baking in the sunshine or snuffling around. He refused to go on any walks so I didn’t force him. Nick and I agreed to give him whatever he wanted.

  It was a September afternoon when Johnny Reggae sat down in the garden, then couldn’t get up again. I nudged Nick, who was working outside on his laptop. ‘Are you seeing this?’

  He followed my gaze to Johnny Reggae. When he spoke, his voice was husky with holding back tears. ‘If he’s like this tomorrow, we’ll make the decision,’ he said.

  I didn’t say a word, just nodded.

  ‘If he’s not well, then it’s not fair to him,’ Nick added.

  I don’t know who he was trying to convince, me or him.

  Next day, Nick was in court, and at three o’clock, I took Johnny Reggae into the garden, up the steps and set him down in the sunshine. Instantly, his back legs gave way and he sank down. He tried to push himself up again, then gave a sigh and lay down. That was when I knew.

  I texted Nick: The dog is bad and we need to take him to the vet. Will you be home by 7 p.m.?

  I paced in the garden while Johnny Reggae basked in the autumn warmth. I was desperate to hear from Nick. I held my phone in my hand and willed Nick to reply. I can’t do this alone.

  There was no reply from Nick so I went next door to speak to my neighbour, Sally. I was crying by the time I reached her door, and when Sally opened it, my words came out in a jumble. She had taken care of Johnny Reggae on days when Nick and I had been at work and she loved him very much. When she understood what I was trying to say, her eyes filled with tears. Arm in arm, we returned to my garden, sat on the bench and held Johnny Reggae. For once, he didn’t try to get away, just leaned on me.

  Sally and I cried together and then we booked an appointment at the vet for later that evening. She promised to come with me if I didn’t hear from Nick. I thanked her and told her I’d let her know when it was time to leave. Then I took Johnny Reggae into the kitchen and placed him on his bed. His eyes stayed on me as I pulled a packet of sausages out of the fridge and fried them all. This was going to be Johnny Reggae’s last meal and I wanted it to be something he would love.

  When it was ready, I sat on the kitchen floor and fed half the sausages to him. If he could have wagged his tail, I reckoned he would have – he enjoyed the sausages that much.

  I packed up the rest and, just as we were about to leave the house, Nick texted: I’m on my way, wait for me.

  When Nick arrived, we left the house together and headed to the surgery. They sedated Johnny Reggae and, as they did so, I treated him to another sausage. I stroked his head. ‘You’re such a lovely boy, Johnny Reggae, we really love you.’

  Johnny Reggae was nineteen years old when he closed his eyes for the final time.

  I began to cry and Nick pulled me into his arms. I couldn’t believe it – just like that, the dog that had opened my eyes and made me appreciate the life I had with Nick was gone. We decided to have Johnny Reggae cremated, and the vet gave us the option of an individual cremation, which we took.

  We went into the reception area and Nick asked the difference in price. It was expensive and I expected him to roll his eyes but, instead, he took a deep breath and said:

  ‘That’s fine.’ He made the arrangements and we returned home.

  Before I’d taken my shoes off, I cleared all Johnny Reggae’s things away. I couldn’t look at them and knew I would want to do it in the morning even less than I wanted to do it then.

  I couldn’t entertain the idea of coming downstairs
to find his empty bed in the kitchen. Better to get it over and done with.

  I packed away any dog food to give to friends who had pets and went to bed, totally heartsick.

  I was in pieces for two days until his ashes were delivered in a little wooden container. It bore a simple brass plaque that read ‘JOHNNY REGGAE’.

  I held it for a while and, somehow, felt better. I placed it on the mantelpiece in the lounge and every time I walked past I blew him a kiss, then burst into tears. The sense of grief I had felt was disproportionate to what I had expected, and I didn’t think people would understand. But, to my surprise, they did. I received so many cards from neighbours, friends and even parents of friends, sending me their heartfelt condolences. One wrote: Johnny Reggae was such a beautiful dog. What a fantastic life you gave him in his twilight years. No one will ever forget him.

  It made me realize how many people had loved him and it meant a lot to me that everyone was being so kind. It didn’t stop me feeling sad, though. At Christmas I wrapped Nick’s present and placed it under the tree.

  On Christmas morning when he opened it to reveal a painting of Johnny Reggae, he grew very still. Then he looked up at me, eyes glistening with tears. ‘He really was such a special chap.’

  My face must have lit up because Nick smiled at me through his sadness. We shared our favourite memories of Johnny Reggae, and I said: ‘He was a smashing dog, wasn’t he?’

  As the New Year hurtled towards us, I thought how lovely it would be to have another dog. A fresh start of sorts. It was nice to think we could do some good, too, by taking in another unwanted one. In January, Nick and I agreed to dip a toe in at Battersea’s Brands Hatch branch and see what was available. That was when I saw a little dog that was ready for rehoming. She was a nine-year-old Jack Russell with a sweet little face and her name was Meggy. I called ahead and arranged to meet her.