‘Let’s see if we can perk her up,’ Lizzy said.
The rehomer told us Duffy’s profile was a good match for our family so we reckoned it was worth a meet and greet.
We were taken to a room on the first floor and waited for Duffy to be brought to us. When she arrived, it was obvious she was quite nervous and shy. She stayed close to the wall at all times and, even though she was a young dog, she wasn’t at all interested in playing. In my heart, I knew Duffy wasn’t right for us but I was certain she would quickly find a new home. She was young and perfect for another family.
After twenty minutes, the rehomer came back and I said, ‘We all think she’s beautiful, but she’s not quite right for us. We’d like to go on and keep looking.’
The rehomer was very understanding. ‘It’s no problem. Any match has to be right for the animal and the owner.’
We returned home and I couldn’t stop thinking about all the dogs we’d seen at Battersea. You had no idea what was going on in their little brains or what they were feeling while waiting for a new home. Somehow that realization made me even more determined to get a dog from there.
But I was anxious. What if Battersea thought we were not serious about taking a dog on because we’d turned Duffy down?
Wayne reassured me. ‘I’m sure the most important thing is that the dog is happy and in the right home. I promise you, Battersea will not think badly of us for wanting to wait for the right dog.’
He was right.
Weeks later, I had a phone call from Battersea. ‘We have a dog that matches your profile. His name is Santa.’
I learnt that the mongrel puppy had been brought in on Christmas Eve by a member of the public who had found him wandering in the streets of London. He was between three and six months old and suffering from a skin condition that had caused his fur to fall out. The rehomer continued: ‘We don’t know what mix of dog Santa is for sure but he looks like a Jack Russell cross. He’s been treated for his skin condition in the clinic and he’s now ready for rehoming.’
The more I heard about this little puppy, the more I wanted to see him. ‘Do you have a picture of him?’ I asked.
She promised to text one to me. Minutes later, my mobile beeped and when the picture loaded, I smiled. Santa was sitting on a red-tiled floor and was staring innocently at the camera. He was gorgeous and there was something about his face that made my heart melt. I absolutely had to meet him.
The text below the picture read: Let us know if you’re interested.
I texted back: Yes please, we’d love to meet him.
Next, I texted Santa’s picture to Wayne, Matthew and Lizzy: I’ve made an appointment to meet this little chap.
I texted his picture to Mum and my sister Janet, and for the next few hours, my phone didn’t stop beeping.
Oh, he’s gorgeous!
What a sweetheart!
Look at that face!
When can we meet him?
Over the next week, I found myself studying that picture of Santa and trying to glean some information from it. Was he playful? Did he look loving and caring? Would Jessie have got along with him?
Saturday could not come quickly enough, and first thing in the morning, we all piled into the car and went to Battersea.
We entered the security gates and waited in Reception. As I watched the staff go about their business, I felt butterflies in my tummy. I was as nervous as I would be for a job interview but, rather than being worried about getting the job, I was worried that I’d fall in love with Santa but Battersea wouldn’t give him to us.
I whispered my worries to Wayne, and he said: ‘Don’t be silly, darling. Whatever is meant to be will be. If this little boy is supposed to come home with us, he will.’
Despite his attempt to calm my nerves, my foot tapped incessantly and I didn’t know what to do with my hands. I could see Lizzy was the same so I held her hand and willed things to move faster. I reckoned that, between us, our misplaced energy could have lit up Big Ben for a few hours.
Ten long minutes later, the door to the left of us opened and a member of staff appeared holding a puppy. She had Santa in her arms and his whole bottom half was moving from side to side because his tail was wagging so much.
Tears sprang to my eyes – I just had to have him.
We were taken to a room and Santa was lovely. He was running and playing, and even though he was hairless because of the skin condition he was being treated for, we barely noticed it. Ultimately, it didn’t matter if he had fur or not as long as we could take him home.
For fifteen minutes we played with him, and he was as warm and loving as I’d hoped he’d be. We all got on the floor and Santa ran around us, over us and back and forth between us. The rehomer brought us a ball and some toys and left us to get to know each other.
Santa’s tail did not stop wagging even though his skin still looked sensitive and his fur was only just growing back. He licked our hands and offered kisses as if he’d known us for years. After ten minutes, I called my sister. ‘Janet, he’s so lovely, we’re besotted with him.’
I could hear the smile in her voice when she said: ‘I knew he would be. Enjoy every moment.’
When the rehomer reappeared, I told her: ‘We absolutely love him.’
‘Let me fetch the vet for a chat,’ she said, smiling.
When she returned with the vet, Shaun, I recognized him from Paul O’Grady: for the Love of Dogs and he was as lovely in real life as he had been on screen. Shaun told us all about the skin condition Santa was suffering from and we learnt it was a mite problem that was passed from mum to puppy and wasn’t contagious. ‘It’s treatable and won’t be a problem now that he’s on the mend.’
I was fixated with hearing as much as possible about Santa so I began asking questions. ‘Do you know exactly how old he is? Or what breed cross he is?’
‘We think he’s between three and six months old but we can’t be sure as we have no background information about him, but we do think he will be a small dog.
‘As for the breed, he could be anything, but probably a Jack Russell mix. It’s really hard to tell without his fur.’
Santa had only a thin smattering of fur so there was no telling if it was rough or smooth.
‘But his hair will grow back in time,’ the vet said. ‘It’s already much better than when he came in so it should be back to normal in a couple of months.’
Santa already had some white fur growing around his chin, like a little beard. It only made him more adorable.
It was so reassuring to talk to the vet and it was clear he was in no hurry to get away. Even though he must have had a thousand other things to do, he made us feel like we were the only people in Battersea. After he left, I told Wayne: ‘I’m so glad we came here.’
We filled out all the relevant paperwork and were given handwritten notes from the vet about Santa’s continued skin care. While we waited for him to be microchipped and given his first injections, we went into the Battersea shop and bought him a bed, toys and treats. We were giddy with excitement as we picked things out for our new little boy. With Jessie, we’d accumulated a lot of her things over time, but with Santa, we had so much fun splurging on things for him that, admittedly, we went a bit overboard.
When he was finally brought out, Santa was so happy. The staff member who handed him over to us said: ‘I fostered Santa for a while. He’s adorable and loves to hog the sofa. I fell in love with him and I know you will too.’
I’d known he would be perfect from the minute I’d seen his picture but hearing it from someone who had taken care of him for a few weeks meant a lot to us. ‘We’ll let you know how he’s getting on,’ I promised her.
When we got him home, I held Santa in my arms and gave him a tour of the house. I put his bed in the open-plan kitchen-diner and my eyes fell on Jessie’s blanket. I picked it up and placed it in Santa’s bed. I told him: ‘This was your big sister’s blanket and I know she would have wanted you to have it.�
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Without so much as a sniff, he climbed right in and snuggled down.
While he settled in, we set about picking a new name for him. In the end, I posted a picture of him on Facebook and asked my friends: ‘What should we name him?’
There were the usual replies, Max, Rex and Oscar, but nothing jumped out at me. Suddenly, something popped into my head. I said: ‘What about Bertie?’
Matthew was in the other room playing on his Xbox but he shouted: ‘That’s a good name, Mum! He’s Bertie Battersea!’
My dad was Albert but everyone had called him Bert. Bertie seemed a fitting tribute and the name stuck.
Bertie wasn’t house-trained so that was our first task. Every night I put puppy mats down in the kitchen-diner where his bed was, and in the morning, I found a million pieces of cotton wool everywhere. It might have been a problem for some but I found it funny: it was the terrier nature that I’d missed having in the house.
Within three weeks, Bertie was fully house-trained. He was as bright as a button so I wasn’t surprised he caught on so quickly. But whenever one of us arrived home, we had to greet Bertie on the decking because when he got excited he’d do a little wee.
Nothing was too much trouble, but one thing was bothering me. I called my cousin Pam in tears one evening. ‘Bertie is perfect for us, but I feel like I’m betraying Jessie. Will I ever love Bertie like I did her?’
My cousin was sympathetic. She’d rehomed many dogs over the years and she had some words of advice. ‘You will absolutely fall in love with him, but just give it a few weeks.’
Whenever I was on a break at work, I checked in on Bertie by calling or texting Wayne for updates. One day he sent me a video in reply. I clicked play and saw Bertie sitting in his bed. His tail was wagging furiously. Then Wayne’s voice came on: ‘Bertie,’ he said slowly, ‘what have you done?’
As the camera panned away from Bertie and into the kitchen, the bomp, bomp, bomp of Bertie’s furiously wagging tail was still within earshot. When the camera focused on the kitchen, a giggle burst out of me. Everything at Bertie height had been pulled out of the cupboards and was now on the kitchen floor. There was pasta all over the lino and the bin had been tipped out. To top it off, there was cotton wool from Bertie’s puppy mat. Wayne turned the camera back on Bertie and zoomed in on his face. All I could see were the whites of his eyes, and in the background, I could hear the bomp, bomp, bomp of Bertie’s tail. Then the video cut out and I laughed till I cried.
In that moment, I realized something. I had truly and utterly fallen in love with Bertie, just like my cousin had said I would.
Every two weeks, we treated his skin and, as the vet had predicted, his fur grew back a few months later. He is mostly black but with a brilliant white apron, white paws and a white pirate beard with white eyebrows. He looks like an old dog in a young dog’s body!
Even as a puppy, Bertie’s big personality shone through. He was spontaneous, funny, affectionate and stubborn as anything. If you let him off the lead in the park, he shot off and only came back when he was good and ready. In so many ways, he was the opposite of Jessie, but we all loved him just as much. Unlike his big sister, Bertie loved squeaky toys and was always desperate to play. If I was watching TV, he’d appear in front of me with his ball. Then he’d paw at my legs and nudge me till I looked at him. If I continued ignoring him, he’d stand up on his back legs and wave his paws at me. I’d tell him: ‘Not now Bertie, I’m watching TV.’ Then he’d drop the ball on to the sofa and stare at me. He’d stare and stare with those puppy-dog eyes until I was on my feet and in the garden.
Our garden was 140 feet long, with more land behind it, and when I threw the ball, Bertie would run down the tiny track Jessie had worn into the ground. It was comforting to me to see that: the circle of life. And, also like Jessie, when the days were hot and he needed some shade, he’d go under the low conifer where she used to lie.
Some time later, Bertie developed a benign cyst under his front leg and underwent a small operation to have it removed. The surgery was fine but, gosh, did Bertie hate wearing the ‘cone of shame’! He had no sense of its size and, as he was still a puppy, bounded around the house with it on. But when the cone connected with a chair leg or the door frame, he’d bounce back with a whiny growl as if to say, What just happened? We took it off at dinnertime, but he soon learnt that putting pressure on the tab at the side would undo it. After three days of constantly refixing the cone over his head we decided to take it off altogether. As I did, I told Bertie: ‘You be a good boy now, Bertie, and don’t touch those stitches.’
And he did exactly as he was told.
By now, it was nearly Christmas once more and, for the first time since losing Dad and Jessie, we were all looking forward to the festivities. This time when the tree went up, Bertie was all over us trying to get a look in. On Christmas Day, I pulled out a little green-and-red-striped jumper with a white fluffy trim around the edges. I put Bertie on to my lap. ‘Let’s see if we can get this on you now …’
Usually Bertie wriggled away from any clothing, but this time he held perfectly still and let me slip on his Christmas jumper. Then he hopped down, had a little shake and proudly strutted around the room. He was doing a lap of honour and everyone in the room squealed – he looked that cute.
After Christmas dinner, we opened our presents and first to get his paws on his was Bertie. He loved ripping off the wrapping paper, and when he found he had a new toy, well, there was another lap of honour with the new toy hanging out of his mouth.
That Christmas was a world away from the last two: our house was alive once more.
Now, Bertie is two years old. He has long legs, a gorgeous Jack Russell face and short, rough black fur. We think he’s a Patterdale cross. Even though he’s not a puppy any more, sometimes he reverts to puppy ways. The other night, Wayne came down for work in the early hours of the morning and checked in on Bertie in the dining room to find him shivering in the corner. It turned out that when we’d drawn the dining room curtain, it had covered Bertie’s bed and he’d been too scared to climb in! I’d heard Wayne laughing in the middle of the night.
Now, our home is filled with laughter and warmth and so much love because of Bertie. Our family is simply not complete if we don’t have a dog and I’m so pleased we turned to Battersea to help us find ours. Everyone he meets falls in love with Bertie and we’re so proud of him that we post pictures of him on Twitter for his fans to see and also on the Battersea Facebook page to let them know how he’s getting on.
When we went there, every member of the Battersea team was dedicated to helping us find the right dog. In Bertie, they found us the perfect match.
14. My Darling Rosie
I moved along the platform, and as the train whistled into the station, the cold air whooshing past made me shiver. Beside me, my teenagers Billie and Liam let out that sound you make when you’re freezing – ‘Brrrraaaaahhhhh!’
We burst out laughing and, still giggling, boarded the toasty train. Everyone else on it had had the same idea as us: they were travelling into London for the Christmas period to see their families and, again like us, they had lots of bags. After squeezing our holdalls into any space we could find overhead and under our feet, we settled in for the journey from our home in Devon. Three hours later, the train glided into Waterloo station to a flurry of activity. Some passengers were shooting out of London in the direction we’d just come from, while others were heading to the Tube to go further into town.
Our Christmas holiday was well and truly under way and we chatted excitedly as we headed to East Dulwich where my mum and dad were waiting. For many years, my parents had lived in different countries around Europe and the Middle East while my sisters and I had spread out around Britain, starting our own families and finding our way.
Now Mum and Dad had returned to London for good and were living their dream of running a bustling pub, The Rose. This Christmas was the first for many years that we would all
spend Christmas together. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been so excited. It wasn’t very often that I found myself with my younger sister Paula, who lived in Taunton, and Dawn, who lived in London.
As we arrived at The Rose, I slung my arms around Billie and Liam. ‘Here we go!’ We entered the pub, and as I took in the massive Christmas tree by the fireplace, crammed full of decorations, and the sprigs of mistletoe hanging over the bar, I smiled. This was why my kids called Mum the ‘Queen of Christmas’. She loved this time of year, and everywhere I looked, I saw her handiwork – sparkly decorations and shimmering tinsel. It was like stepping into a Christmas grotto, with jingly tunes tinkling in the background perfecting the scene.
‘Look at it all,’ I said, squishing the kids to my sides. ‘I’m half expecting Father Christmas and a bunch of elves to come running out from the bar!’
Instead of Father Christmas, another figure approached. Mum had obviously spotted me before I’d spotted her because she’d materialized out of nowhere and was now pulling us in for the tightest bear hug. She led us into the back of the pub and the stairs to the private flat we would be sharing with the rest of our family for the next ten days.
That was when I saw the latest addition to our family. ‘Hello, Rosie,’ I called. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you!’
From the top of the stairs, a pair of curious eyes and a lovely soppy face stared back at me. I couldn’t see Mum’s new dog’s wagging tail but I could hear the thump, thump, thump as we climbed the staircase. As we approached Rosie, who’d been named after the pub, she moved backwards a little nervously but let us stroke and greet her.
Rosie, a Staffie and Boxer cross, had been with my parents for a month but this was the first time Billie, Liam and I had met her. She followed us around as we unpacked our things and seemed happy to see new people but I could tell she was a little bit nervous of us at first. Whenever there was a loud noise or we got a bit rowdy and raised our voices, Rosie’s ears would flatten against her head and her eyes would go white. We had to reassure her, and then she’d return to normal.
Christmas at Battersea: True Stories of Miracles and Hope Page 20
