by Sally Hyder
Overriding all of the above concerns was the very simple question of how I’d clean up after a dog. OK, so now I was really worried. I rang Canine Partners.
‘What about picking up poo?’ I asked.
‘Don’t worry,’ said Julie. ‘We have systems and ways to teach you how to look after your dog. There are commands for everything. If you were to get a dog, you would learn commands. We would teach you all you need to know about how to care for your dog in the best way for you.’
‘What about exercising?’ I persisted.
But she just laughed: ‘Yes, we have that sorted too.’
Chapter 11
Starting a New Adventure
I sent off the final batch of forms and crossed my fingers. Now that I had a plan it was as though someone had shown me a secret door. Already it was partly open and through it I’d caught a glimpse of a sunny day and a beautiful Golden Labrador chasing a ball. When, a week later, I received a letter offering me an applicant assessment day in November 2008, the door was yanked open wide: now I could see the sky.
But before I got there, I had a list of commands to learn:
‘Come here!’
‘Behind!’
‘Let’s go!’
‘Get it!’
‘My lap!’
‘Sit!/Down!/Stand!’
‘Heel!/Side!’
‘Better go now!’
‘Bring it here!’
‘Knee!’
The big day came and when I say big, I mean BIG. I was so excited, I couldn’t talk and a silent Sally makes everyone nervous. The family were giving me very strange looks.
‘Mum, are you all right?’
‘Fine, fine,’ I insisted.
How would it go? Would I return disappointed, deemed unable to care for a dog or would I be able to master the lessons and … I just couldn’t handle the idea of failure.
Andrew and I flew down from Edinburgh to Gatwick and hired a car. We were doing it as a day trip to reduce the amount of time that he took off (he was now working in London on a consultancy basis) and we left Melissa behind. The team provided by Gatwick to collect me from the plane were a bit confused and dropped us off at International Arrivals. Quite why we were taken to International Arrivals, we still don’t know. It might have been funny, being asked for my passport, if time hadn’t been of the essence.
‘Sorry,’ I said. ‘I didn’t think we needed passports travelling from Scotland.’
Eventually they let us through but we still had to get past Customs.
We arrived at Gatwick to one of those glorious cold autumnal days. We drove past thick woods. Leaves shimmered in a patchwork of orange and gold, then the landscape opened out and we arrived at Heyshott – a small village with a church and a nature reserve, where they’ve discovered Neolithic and Bronze Age earthworks. We turned left into the long, sweeping drive through fields on either side. As we did so, we passed a sign:
SLOW 10 MPH
Wheelchairs and dogs in all parts of the site
We were definitely in the right place! After turning right into the complex of buildings, we parked up. On the left was what turned out to be the newly built residential units in what was once a stable block; they looked like pretty cottages. I found out later that their chief volunteer gardener (William) had made sure there were tubs of colour, even in November. To give you a little bit of background, Canine Partners has been there since 2003, when the charity was able to buy a former polo yard and farm with various outbuildings. The polo tack room had been converted into a training room.
It was 10.30am by the time we entered the big converted barn that serves as Canine Partners headquarters and I was definitely frazzled. I’d phoned to apologise in advance for my lateness but felt frantic with anxiety; it wasn’t a good start. In fact it turned out that Chrissie, the trainer whose job it was to assess me, was late too, which made me feel a whole lot better. Later, I discovered that they were quite accustomed to people being subject to the vagaries of public transport.
The barn was empty: we found ourselves in a big reception area, looking up at a balcony that runs all the way around the top. We weren’t sure what to do. In a room to the left we could glimpse people in purple, dogs and someone in a wheelchair. We waited, eventually knocked and were welcomed with a smile: ‘Hello! You must be Sally, I’m Chrissie,’ plus the offer of a cup of tea and then ushered into the next-door room.
Chrissie was very friendly and welcoming; she asked me about the journey and explained how the day would run. First, we would get to know each other a bit and have a chat. Then we would meet the dogs, have lunch, do some work with the dogs and then a final chat. Unable to think straight, I was so scared and nervous that I just kept nodding. I was transported back to the church halls of my nursing days when I was involved in running children’s drama groups and listening to them belting out their lines while giving lots of encouragement.
‘Stop! Who goes there?’
Instead of being draughty and smelling of dust, however, the place was warm, light and wonderfully peaceful. The only interruptions to the library-like quiet were occasional barks from the dogs. There were dogs everywhere: they were all on vets’ beds (they have a special kind of bed fabric for dogs), some lying, others barking, still more sitting. Some were in advanced training, others staying there while their partners were in hospital and some were even being re-partnered. I was amazed at how quiet the site was, given the number of dogs – it was a far cry from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home or the local vet. If you hadn’t seen all those dogs on site, you might have thought they were all out for the day.
Two other people were being assessed that day: both female, one younger, one much older than me, but both in wheelchairs. We didn’t really make contact other than smiling as we were all focused on this new experience. It did, however, make me feel better that I wasn’t the only newbie.
‘Just ignore the dogs,’ said Chrissie. ‘They’re here to work and we have our own reward system.’
I’d been wondering what they used as secret weapons.
We went through the form so that Andrew and I could ask questions. I felt that I should ask a few to show interest but I was so tongue-tied (a phenomenon that rarely happens to me) that I was grateful for Andrew’s useful questions about caring for the dogs and our set-up at home. I felt like a little kid: I just wanted to meet the dogs. Show me the dogs! I could feel myself becoming more and more impatient; I tried to behave: Don’t be stroppy, Sally! I could feel Andrew looking at me, trying to keep me calm.
‘So,’ said Chrissie, getting up. ‘Shall we meet the dogs?’
At last! The first Golden Labrador I met was Garfield, an apt name for the floppy-haired, burnt-toffee dog. He was brought to me and attached to my wheelchair using the cunning fixtures and clever leads devised by Canine Partners as part of their system. All the dogs that I would meet that day were in advanced training; already they had been partnered or were about to be partnered and so they knew what they were doing. They were ideal dogs for me to work with while being assessed.
An electric wheelchair was produced and I was shown how to use it: another first. When I say first, I mean this was the first time I’d willingly used an electric wheelchair beyond the four walls of my home. On bad days when my legs were shaky, I used the little one at home. It felt strange but at the same time, a positive experience. But Canine Partners make no fuss over your disabilities: the focus is on the dog, and how you and the dog can work as a team.
I was then shown how the special Canine Partners’ lead works. It’s a brilliant design: 1.2 metres (4 feet) long, with metal rings at intervals that can be attached to the wheelchair via a connection on the chair. The lead is let out at intervals by taking rings on and off, giving the dog length, according to what you need it to do. Say, for example, you need the dog to go behind your chair when you’re going through a door then you must let them have a full length.
I was so concerned with trying to negotiate the d
og and the lead while remembering my commands at the same time that I kept forgetting to turn the wheelchair off whenever I stopped.
‘Wheelchair off!’ said Chrissie.
It was both humbling and frustrating to forget such a simple task; it was much harder than anticipated too. The coordination necessary to move in a wheelchair with a dog involves a feat of logic – it’s a marriage of minds and machinery. If you’re turning left, you say ‘move!’ – the dogs are trained to move out of the way. When turning right, however, you say nothing. You always start with ‘Let’s go!’ so the dog knows you are on the move.
Was it easy to confuse? You bet! Yet suddenly being in a wheelchair felt like more of an advantage than a disadvantage: now I was able to move easily round a room with a gorgeous dog in tow, looking at me and listening to me. I was in control of my life. Thrilled, I kept glancing over at Andrew (a huge animal-lover), knowing how much he wanted to go over to the dogs who weren’t working and give them a stroke. He was so fantastic, though and didn’t make eye contact with them at all. It must have been pretty dull for him to just sit and watch.
But Andrew can handle pressure well: occasionally he would catch my eye with a silent ‘go on, you can do this!’. I wanted to get it right for my sake, for his sake and for our kids. Most of all, I was keen to prove that I could master the exercises for the sake of Garfield, who was beginning to look confused: Are you turning right or left, lady? Make your mind up!
Chrissie then asked me to drop some keys and a purse on the floor, which I duly did.
‘Get it, bring it here!’ I said, as I became more accustomed to the manoeuvring.
Then I got the commands wrong and poor Garfield did nothing. When he should have retrieved, I told him, ‘Bring it here!’ bypassing the ‘Get it!’ altogether. Now I was in a real fluster.
‘I think we all need a cup of tea,’ said Chrissie, just in the nick of time.
Half an hour later I was back with the dogs. This time I was passed on to a black Flat-coat called Guy. Flat-coats are manic: often they are called ‘Peter Pan dogs’ because they remain eternally youthful and playful. Guy’s tail flapped, his ears flapped and his tongue hung out as though he’d already run a marathon and was eager to do another. I remember thinking, how am I going to control this dog? I could hear my voice rising; he was making me nervous. As we went around the room retrieving items and opening doors, I was feeling tense.
Afterwards I said it was like trying to control a thorough-bred stallion. I thought he was the most amazing dog in the world but in retrospect, he didn’t make me feel safe. He ended up being partnered with a man and apparently they’re both very happy, which is brilliant. I’ve always had a soft spot for Guy and follow his adventures. One posting on Facebook by his partner recently read: ‘If anyone in Holland sees a flat-coat swimming by, could you tell him his tea’s ready!’ It made me laugh. He’s a lovely dog, but too much for me.
We’d brought a picnic lunch, which we ate in the other room with my fellow applicants. Though tired, everyone chatted about where they had come from and what they hoped for from the dogs. I hardly ate or spoke, which again wasn’t like me at all.
Afterwards we had coffee before putting on outdoor clothes and going out to the backfield to exercise the dogs. Again, that’s not as easy as it sounds. First, we had to negotiate getting out there, which involved going through a door, passing between a row of parked cars and bringing the dogs with us. I managed it and what’s more, Garfield didn’t get tangled up with me.
We then had to take the dogs to the toilet area and tell them to use it with a ‘Better go now!’ instruction, then wait. Aha, so that’s how you pick up poo! I thought. In fact, you don’t. Instead the dog goes in a special toilet area so that it doesn’t need to relieve itself in a public place. They learn to control their bowels and go when instructed – very clever.
The field was surrounded by hedges, the air fresh and cold: it was exactly what I needed to wake me from the stupor brought on by a 5am start, intense concentration and a warm room. The ground was bumpy. Being outside was turning into an off-road adventure.
‘I’m going to show you the first task you need,’ said Chrissie, ‘which is a controlled release of the lead. You let the dog off the lead, you count to ten then say, “Release. Go play!” Got it?’
‘I think so,’ I said.
We had a few practice sessions. I’d forgotten what it was to feel a sense of achievement at having mastered a new skill: I felt responsible for the dog and I loved it, all of it. To share his freedom, to know he would respond to whatever I said felt amazing. It was also fantastic to be outside playing with this animal. Memories of running across fields with Shep, watching Jet scamper across the South Downs or seeing Sandie hurl her barrel-shaped body into the sea came flooding back.
I raced all round the little field in my wheelchair. Chris-sie only intervened once when I was chasing Garfield.
‘We don’t encourage the dogs to run away from the person in the chair,’ she told me. ‘Otherwise, when you need them they might think it’s a game.’
With Andrew by my side, I worked with lots of different dogs. I had to get them to retrieve their toys and bring them back to me. Chrissie stood and watched, looking cold and chatting with other trainers who were bringing dogs over to the toilet areas. Afterwards she smiled and said, ‘Well done!’
But did she mean it? I was absolutely exhausted but too scared to ask if I could have a dog. Meanwhile, the trainers had lunch and discussed applicants as Andrew and I took a much-needed cup of tea.
‘It’s so difficult standing around all those dogs and not being able to stroke them,’ said Andrew.
I couldn’t have agreed more. Andrew is the St Francis in our family. Dogs just love him, as do cats, horses and well, just about any animal you care to mention, really – his calm persona attracts them. Chrissie left us alone for a while and Andrew sneaked a quick stroke with Guy.
After lunch, we waited for Chrissie at the table in the barn and I tried to pretend my stomach really wasn’t twisted into knots or that my entire future was predicated on whether or not I was suitable for a Canine Partnership.
Chrissie came and sat down opposite us.
‘Yes,’ she said.
Yes?
‘We do think you’re suitable for a dog. Now, what else do you want the dog to do?’
I couldn’t believe it: I’d passed the first hurdle and I was overjoyed.
Andrew squeezed my hand.
‘Thanks, Chrissie,’ I said.
On the plane home that evening I was so exhausted and in so much pain that I couldn’t sleep. I just kept thinking, I’m going to get a dog; I’m going to get a dog!
Chapter 12
Love at Second Sight
In retrospect, perhaps we shouldn’t have tried to fit it all in a single day: meeting the dogs, learning about Canine Partners, them learning about me. When I got on the plane, I was aching from head to toe but of course, I couldn’t sleep: I was buzzing with excitement. It was like the first flush of love when you can’t stop giggling but you’re racked with anxiety, all at the same time. I shut my eyes and revisited the experience: the smells of the dogs, the fresh air, the beauty of the countryside and the slow dawning realisation that this was to be my new adventure.
Was it going to work out?
We got home after dark and went straight to bed. In the morning, with Andrew off to work I talked to Melissa about our day over the snap, crackle and pop of her Rice Krispies. She thought we had been to a meeting (in some ways, it is a benefit of her disability that she doesn’t ask too many questions). Then she was off to school and didn’t seem to think any more about it. Keeping our plans for a dog a secret from her was so difficult.
But the older kids knew where I was going: I had kept the leaflets well hidden but I couldn’t resist telling them all about it. Although they didn’t quite grasp the assistance bit, they were hugely excited about the prospect of getting a dog; they had a
lso taken on board the ‘hands off’ approach – a difficult one to instil when you have a family.
Meanwhile, I kept reading the first leaflet I had been sent and the stories of disabled people who have Canine Partners. Gazing at their photos, I wondered if I would be like them one day. The leaflet had become a lucky charm. In retrospect, I’d already sensed the dark clouds lifting, as if the very thought of another adventure for Andrew and me was beginning to work its magic.
Two weeks later I had a call from Canine Partners to say that they wanted to do a home visit to make sure ours was suitable. In the first week of December 2008, partnership coordinator Wendy and Adele (PA to Andy Cook, the chief executive) travelled up from Heyshott to look round and meet the family.
As I have already mentioned, our house is detached. From the kitchen, French doors open directly out onto wooden decking, from which a series of ramps access the garden. Taking Adele and Wendy for a tour, Andrew explained we would organise the toilet area to the left of the ramp, not too far away from the house, which would make it more pleasant if the weather was bad; it would also be well away from the garden shed, where the foxes live. They asked us to install gates on either side of the house to block the two points of access from front to back. Ironically, my final comment was that a blonde dog wouldn’t be good because I’ve got purple carpets.
Wendy and Adele signed me off. I’d passed the second hurdle! The next couple of weeks flew by in a flurry of activities. Clara was in her last year in the choir and was one of the head choristers. This meant shouldering solos, organisational duties and also being present at rehearsals, concerts and services. Since she had been in the choir, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day had tight schedules of their own. Clara would do the second of two Nine Lessons and carols (the traditional service leading up to Christmas and my favourite because it’s always so mysterious and magical). The choir begins in the pitch-black with the ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ solo and then launches into a series of carols, lighting candles as they proceed into the cathedral. That year, Clara and the other head chorister rotated the solo with ‘In the Bleak Midwinter’. It was such a proud moment hearing my daughter’s voice soar, not for the first time, into the rafters.
