When I arrived at the beautiful rural grounds of the Brands Hatch site, the rehomer told me Meggy’s history and I knew instantly she wasn’t right for Nick and me. She couldn’t be left on her own. I met Meggy, as I’d come all the way there, but I had to tell the rehomer: ‘It wouldn’t be fair to another family if I took Meggy on. She’s not right for us.’
The rehomer was understanding. ‘Don’t worry, we’ll find her a home.’
Two days later when I checked the website, a red ‘Rehomed’ banner flashed across her profile.
About three weeks passed. Then, one day, my phone rang. When I answered, it was a rehomer from Brands Hatch. ‘We’ve got a Jack Russell cross in and we think he might be a really good match for you.’
I was surprised to get the call, but so grateful and flattered that the staff had thought of me.
I learnt that Billy was a sweet little chap who’d had a rough time. The rehomer told me: ‘He hasn’t had much exposure to the real world, and the kennels aren’t suiting him. We’re hoping to rehome him quickly.’
My best friend Asha was coming to stay with me the following weekend while Nick was busy working so we decided to make the trip together to see Billy. Nick and I agreed in advance that if I liked Billy he’d go to meet him the following week and we’d take it from there.
On Sunday afternoon, Asha and I went to Brands Hatch and what we learnt about Billy was nothing we could have prepared for. It was beyond heartbreaking. Billy was eight and had been with the same family all of his life. He’d lived with a father and daughter, who had loved him very much, but the daughter had mental-health problems, which had made her unpredictable around the dog. In the last six months, she’d tried to hurt Billy three times.
I gasped when I heard that Billy, who loved the woman dearly, would be sitting on her lap enjoying a stroke when, all of a sudden, she’d turn against him.
The father had brought Billy to Brands Hatch even though he didn’t want to give him up.
Now Billy was emotionally fragile, in desperate need of a loving new home. I really wanted to meet him so we were shown to the kennels. A lot of the dogs came forward to see us as we walked past, but when we arrived at Billy’s kennel he didn’t even look up. ‘He’s not liking this at all, the poor thing,’ I said to Asha.
Asha, who is normally quite tough, was on the verge of crying.
‘Can we please meet him properly?’ I asked the rehomer.
We were shown to a meeting room and the rehomer fetched Billy for us. I was expecting a shy dog to come in, but the moment Billy entered the room, his tail was wagging and he looked so bright and excited. He jumped straight on to my lap, proud as you like, and settled there.
I thought: We’re taking this dog.
It had been raining when we’d left the house so I’d worn my knee-high boots. Although it was very muddy outside, I took Billy for a walk in the fields, just the two of us. He didn’t mind the mud, and neither did I, but I noticed he was very nervous. Every noise made him jump, and at times he looked like a rabbit in headlights. In fact, he was so nervy that he did everything at lightning speed. It was quite a change from Johnny Reggae, but Billy had found himself a home right in my heart.
He seemed so different from when I’d first seen him in the meeting room and I wondered if perhaps Billy might not be as confident as he’d appeared to be. I returned to the main building and told the rehomer I wanted him. We agreed Nick would visit on Tuesday night while I was away with my horse, Lander, for a show.
When I returned home, Nick was working. Eventually he took a break and I made him a cup of tea. ‘I really want this dog, Nick.’
‘I’m sure I’ll feel the same,’ he said. ‘I’ll be at Brands Hatch on Tuesday night.’
That day, I was competing Lander in a dressage competition near Watford, Hertfordshire, and by the time I arrived home it was nearly seven o’clock. I opened the door, and when I got to the sofa I froze. Nick was sprawled on it and next to him was a brindled Jack Russell with a grey face.
‘Billy!’ I gasped, moving towards them in shock.
Nick was grinning from ear to ear and his eyes twinkled. ‘I bet you didn’t see that one coming, did you?’
I settled on the other side of him and swallowed the sudden lump in my throat. ‘I really didn’t.’ It had been the biggest surprise but the best one I’d had in as long as I could remember.
Nick reached across Billy and squeezed my hand.
That evening, the three of us snuggled up on the sofa, all of us shattered. Nick and I were both coming down with flu. But Billy, whom we’d renamed Tiffin, because he was such a treat, stayed hunkered down between us. He was the opposite of Johnny Reggae. He loved to be stroked and cuddled, and wanted to be jammed up next to us, lying on his back.
I’d bought a large crate for him so I put his bed and a bowl of water in it, then him. Nick and I went to bed.
An hour passed and I woke to loud barking. Tiffin was three floors down but I could still hear him. ‘Maybe he needs the loo,’ I said, pulling on my dressing-gown. Nick was still fast asleep, and I envied his ability to sleep through anything.
I went downstairs to find Tiffin really distressed. I sat on the floor next to the crate and opened the door. He flew out and slammed into me, desperate for me to stroke him. If I stopped, he pawed at me and howled. I’d never had a dog before Johnny Reggae and he had been so relaxed about bedtime. I’d had no experience of this behaviour and was at a loss for what to do. I tried to comfort Tiffin but it was clear he simply didn’t want me to leave him.
Then I had an idea. I turned on my laptop and Googled what to do. Every website I came across said I should shut Tiffin in the crate and walk away. I hesitated but I knew it was the right way to go about it.
I muttered, ‘Start as you mean to go on,’ then put Tiffin inside and shut the door.
As soon as my back was turned, he began to howl.
I shut the kitchen door, then went upstairs and shut the bedroom door. I got into bed, put earplugs into my ears and went to sleep.
Hours later I jolted awake and removed one of the earplugs. There it was. Tiffin was still going. But it was for the best he learnt straight away that night-time was crate-time.
Early next morning I went downstairs and Tiffin bounced with excitement. He jumped up and down on the spot but didn’t try to climb up me. He was just so happy to see me.
Within two nights, he’d stopped howling. But during the day, if I was on the phone, he’d begin again. I ignored him and soon all the howling stopped.
It was as if he’d suddenly connected the dots. Mummy and Daddy are here and they are not going anywhere.
But that was the tip of the iceberg. We soon discovered that Tiffin’s past had had a lasting effect on his behaviour in many ways. When I took him out for walks I noticed quickly that he hated being around other dogs. It was as if a red mist of rage gripped him whenever he saw another of his kind and he would go crazy. I had a theory that perhaps he’d not been around dogs or socialized much with them when he had been with his previous owners and that this had led to his fury when he saw one.
When a member of the Brands Hatch team called to see how we were getting along, I explained that Tiffin wasn’t dealing well with other dogs. I talked to one of the behaviourists and he gave me some guidance. ‘For the time being,’ he said, ‘try to walk in areas that are not heavily populated with dogs – woods, or parks that have large open spaces. That’ll give Tiffin the chance to move away, if you do encounter another dog, and not be in a small space with it. You can walk along roads, too, but make sure you’re aware of any dogs approaching and try to give them a wide berth.’ It was common sense, really, I thought.
The trainer continued: ‘I’d like you to work on making Tiffin focus on you. You need to get his attention and keep it. Reward him with a treat when he does what you want. Gradually, while you’re practising this, build in distractions. Go to a place where you know there will be other dogs and rew
ard him when he keeps his attention on you, rather than barking at them. If he does get vocal, work on his attention again, and keep trying. You’ll get there in the end – Tiffin wants to please you. He just has to understand how to do it.’
There was work to do elsewhere too. ‘He’s a bright little dog,’ the trainer observed. ‘He needs plenty of mental stimulation when you’re at home or in the garden, something to occupy his mind. He should enjoy search games – and many dogs love getting food out of kongs. You’ll find one at your local pet shop.’
The trainer also told me to monitor Tiffin’s behaviour carefully: he recommended that I kept a diary and noted down any changes in Tiffin’s posture when he met dogs. That way I’d get an idea of whether or not he was making any progress.
Clearly it would take some time to figure out what Tiffin could and couldn’t handle and, for now, we’d have to take the rough with the smooth. We noticed that Tiffin was nervous with women: if Nick and I were in a room, Tiffin would suddenly disappear behind Nick and cower. If I called him, he wouldn’t come, but he quickly became besotted with Nick, to the extent that if we got home together and I opened the door, he would knock me down to get to Nick.
I felt sad for me and sad for Tiffin. I didn’t want him to be scared of me, but he’d been traumatized by his past and that wasn’t his fault. It explained why, that first night, though he was nervous with women, he’d still jumped into my arms. His need for comfort had outweighed his fear of me. I hoped that, in time, he’d come to learn that I would never hurt him and he was safe to love me as I loved him.
If Nick wasn’t there, Tiffin was fine with me on my own, but every now and then, a noise or the jolt of a memory would trigger something and his ears would flatten, he’d look at me with wide eyes, then run away and hide.
I paid close attention to my own behaviour and questioned my actions a lot. Did I move too quickly? Did I catch him off guard? I wore my hair up, then down, trying to figure out his triggers but it was impossible to pinpoint. It took all I had not to cry when it happened – it made me so sad to think of what he’d suffered.
‘What should I do?’ I asked the dog trainer. ‘Should I reassure him?’
He was firm: ‘Dogs don’t understand reassurance. You will only reinforce bad behaviour if you comfort him when he reacts negatively.’
‘What’s the alternative?’ I queried.
‘Ignore him until he comes to you, then make a big fuss of him.’
Inside I felt terrible for Tiffin and it went against my every instinct to ignore him when he was scared: he’d been abused by somebody he’d trusted and loved, and it was neither his fault nor hers. But it wasn’t my fault either.
What a sad state of affairs.
Whenever Nick arrived home, Tiffin didn’t want to know me any more. He wouldn’t let me walk round his back end, and if I caught him unawares, he’d flinch and move away. I wondered if his tail had been pulled a lot. If I put his food in a bowl and set it in front of him, he’d watch me until I left the room before tucking in.
It was hard work and I felt deflated. When we went for a walk, every noise freaked him out. I told Nick: ‘He’s like a cat on a hot tin roof, he jumps that much.’
Whenever I got his lead he’d hop excitedly, but outside, when he realized we were leaving the house, he wouldn’t budge.
But every now and then, Tiffin and I would have a lovely moment together, which made things worthwhile. In the summer I ventured further away from our home and found myself in the walled garden at the cathedral. Like Johnny Reggae before him, Tiffin sat on the bench with me and watched the world go by. It was such a peaceful place, not just for me but Tiffin too. He leant into me and let me stroke him from head to tail without flinching. It was an amazing feeling to have Tiffin start to trust me and relax around me. If he was spooked by a female friend or relative who came to our home, though, he would seek comfort from Nick, not me. I learnt to accept that.
In time, Nick and I took Tiffin to dog-training classes every Sunday and, at first, we couldn’t join in, just walked around the periphery so Tiffin could get used to seeing other dogs.
Slowly, things started making sense to him. He no longer went crazy when he saw another dog and we were able to complete two forty-five-minute walks with him each day. If somebody had a dog that set Tiffin off, I’d shout: ‘Sorry, he’s a work-in-progress.’ Everybody understood. I was seeing the same faces every day and found myself making new friends while I was out and about with Tiffin. His horizons were expanding and so were mine. It felt nice to be on this journey together. In the mornings, I took to running with Tiffin and he seemed calmer like that. When he saw other dogs, we were already down the road when he remembered to bark. Every morning I’d pull on my running shoes and Nick laughed. ‘Rather you than me,’ he said. But, actually, I was glad it was me: Tiffin was already besotted with his dad. I had to work for his love.
It was then that the real Tiffin began to show. He’s very needy of people and of love, but he’s quite capable of being left on his own for a couple of hours. But if you’re there, he wants you constantly. Tiffin nudges you politely, then stares at you endlessly till you give him some love.
With his eyes opened to the world and experiencing more things in the short months he’d been with us than he probably had in is whole lifetime, he started to man up. He was still fragile, but he grew bolder, more confident. He bounded around the house and garden like he owned the place.
When we went to my parents’ home, he followed my dad everywhere he went. When I called him back, Tiffin ignored me. I called him again and he ignored me a second time. I said firmly: ‘Bad dog.’ That stopped him in his tracks. When he moved again, it was towards me. The minute I said, ‘Good boy,’ he rushed off after Dad again.
I waited till he was out of earshot, then laughed. The little sausage was testing me and, in an odd way, that was a good thing. It showed he was starting to feel confident around me, secure enough to show me how he felt about things. As long as he was still following instructions, I reckoned that was fine. We didn’t have to agree on everything.
Gradually he became more and more comfortable with me. It was as if he was starting to see that nothing bad would happen to him around me, and I was honoured that he was giving me that trust.
Nick and I love having Tiffin around. Tiffin is still very much a work-in-progress. If he gets frightened, he forgets how to behave, but he has lots of good qualities too. I’m teaching him to sit, come and wait. He is proving himself to be a sweet and gentle boy, and every morning when the alarm goes off, I can’t wait to go downstairs and see him. When he’s at doggy daycare, I miss him. He’s really settled now. He knows that this is his home and that nobody is going to hurt him. Just like Johnny Reggae before him, everybody loves Tiffin.
Having Tiffin in our lives has been a learning curve: it’s opened our eyes to the fact that not all dogs from Battersea are happy and self-assured, like Johnny Reggae was, in the beginning. Dogs like Tiffin need owners like us who are willing to take on the challenge and, with the support of Battersea, work out what the dog needs to give it a happier, secure and settled life.
The problems Nick and I encounter now pale into insignificance when Tiffin is with us, and I don’t regret for a second taking on a dog with the difficulties he’s had. He needed another chance. It’s been our honour to help him find himself and enjoy life. We’d do it all again in a heartbeat.
10. A Life-changing Decision
It was early on an August morning when I got a call from my mum: ‘Elizabeth, the cat’s not well. I think it’s time.’
I was so sad to hear that. In recent weeks, our cat Phoebe had gone from being well to extremely unwell. Even though she was eighteen and had come to the end of her natural life, her rapid deterioration had come as a shock to my parents, and an even bigger shock to me.
Phoebe had been our cat since 1998 when we’d gone to pick her from all the other cats at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home in Old Win
dsor. She’d been the quiet, pretty one whose eyes had followed our every movement until she’d stood up and tentatively rubbed her face against our outstretched hands. Now, fifteen years later, it was my task to take her to the vet and say goodbye. Though it was a summer’s day, the heavens opened and rain fell as I left the clinic knowing I’d never see Phoebe again. Mum, Dad and I felt crushed and empty.
As long as I could remember, we’d had cats in our home. The first I’d known was a rescue tabby tom called Tigger, who’d come to stay when I was two years old and was with us for seventeen years. During Tigger’s time, my grandmother’s cat, Jasper, also came to live with us, then Oliver, another rescue – a ginger – and next our darling Phoebe. With the last of our family cats gone, I threw myself into my job – it was the only way I knew how to cope.
The irony wasn’t lost on me that, after a lifetime of loving cats, I’d been lucky enough to get a job at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. Previously, I’d worked in museums and galleries, promoting events and exhibitions, and now I was part of the marketing team at Battersea. There, the walls were lined with Battersea posters, and the mugs in the kitchen bore pictures of the cats and dogs from our various campaigns. The entire staff is animal crazy and it was a comfort to go to work every day.
My job kept me busy managing campaigns and overseeing the social media and website, so I got to meet and promote a lot of the animals waiting for new homes in the kennels or cattery. The job was busy and intensely satisfying but every now and then, I’d wander from our offices to the cattery. There I’d gaze at all the cats waiting for new homes and wish that I had the space to take one for myself.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 15
