Never Say Never.
The last blog I wrote, about the long life and times of our beloved family dog Scouser, ended with the sentence “… and yet, we won’t do it again…”
We had 12 months of a dog-free house, which was okay. But we were used to more than okay. We were used to bounding balls of fluff, tripping over dog toys, scruffles, walks with a purpose and life tinged with a hint of happy chaos. Even with all this in mind, I was determined not to risk the pain of loving a dog again. But then someone at work brought in an impossibly adorable puppy called Lemmy and it was Game Over. I started looking online. My husband, not needing any encouragement, joined the search. And then we found him; a little black-and-white fox terrier Schnoodle cross who we collected from a farm and called Ozzy. He was eight weeks old and it was love at first sight.
We’d forgotten about the puppy years: things have changed since Scouser was a pup. Some days Ozzy went to a puppy nursery where he was adored by the inhouse “Aunties” and then graduated to the big pups’ class. On other days he came into work with me, following me everywhere. He loved the beach, but not the water, played hard and slept hard, socialised quickly and loved a snuggle. He was particularly fond of chewing reading glasses and stealing things off the clothes dryer: he’d stop mid-skip when you called his name, a sock dangling from his mouth, as if by being still we couldn’t see him. He was a funny, naughty, wonderful, loving and loved little pup.
And then.
One night we were woken up by Ozzy being sick, which he did a few more times. It soon became apparent that he couldn’t walk in a straight line or even stand up, and then the seizures began. He was taken straight to the emergency hospital and within 24 hours he couldn’t breathe on his own: euthenasia was the only option. A scan revealed that Ozzy had contracted meningoencephalitis, a condition which causes catastrophic swelling in the brain. It’s not common, or genetic, or something you can vaccinate against. It was just horribly, devastatingly, bad luck.
Ozzy was 8.5 months old and we had him for 6.5 of those months. We brought him home in a little box with a print of his nose and paws, and spent the next little while walking around in a mix of shock and sadness, tripping over his dog bowl, wondering what to do with his toys, wondering why something like this should happen to a little puppy, and confirming that our dog-owning days were behind us.
And then.
I messaged some people with the news. One of those people was Emma, from the farm Ozzy had come from, to whom I sent occasional updates on Ozzy. I jokingly mentioned that, should they have another litter, could they let us know. They’re not breeders so it was a light comment at the end of a sad message.
She came back with “we do” and my heart stopped. I felt fear, excitement, then guilt for feeling excited, then fear again, in a continual loop. My husband, when told of this news, didn’t speak for an hour whilst he processed how he felt. Oz had only been gone a week. The new litter would be ready to take home in four. Getting a new puppy five weeks after the first one dies? No way. Getting the brother of the puppy you just lost after five weeks? Maybe.
Pictures of the new litter revealed some identical to Ozzy, and some that looked completely different. I canvassed friends for their opinions, and one friend – British, with a delectably dark sense of humour, said “Just get one that looks the same, call it Ozzy, bury your heads in the sand and pretend the whole thing never happened”.
As part of the decision-making process, we made what we called a compromise, deciding to visit the pups and make our minds up then. But we all know window shopping for a puppy is a sham. There were several who looked identical to Ozzy, which was wonderful and terrible all at once. We chose a little black pup with a white beard who toddled over and promptly fell asleep on my shoe. Really, Barney chose us.
Barney came home a month later and we went through a kind of deja vu. Ozzy and Barney are different dogs and yet very similar. They have the same taste in reading glasses, but we’re a little more savvy this time around in terms of hiding stuff. They also share an interest in socks on the clothes dryer but Barney’s method is more run away than stand still and become invisible. Barney goes on pack walks and comes to work with me, loves a tummy scratch and will do anything for some beef jerky. He eats his meals watched over by his big brother, whose memory lives on in all of us.
I still stand by my “get the dog” philosophy, even after 12 tumultuous months and two puppies. Ozzy’s story is thankfully played out very rarely, and as I watch Barney try to destroy his indestructable toy, I can’t imagine life without him.