So when you've got daughter and son-in-law and their new baby living with you, who, in their right mind, would add a puppy to the mix? Well, me, obviously. Because this is the first time in thirty years that there has been no resident dog and a house is not a home without a ... pooch. After Bobbie's unexpected demise in May, we soldier on with no welcoming wag at the door and no late-night searches round the garden to find her because she was deaf and couldn't hear us calling, until we go on holiday in June. Things don't feel right.
I am a great believer that sometimes important things (or in this case, a dog) come to you rather than you going to look for them and before we go away leaving very pregnant daughter number 1 in residence, I have a text from a friend saying that someone in the village has puppies and to get myself round there to look. So we go to look at these cockerpoo puppies, slightly larger than gerbils and only days old. A litter of six in assorted colours. We'll think about it.
Back from holiday with scarcely a breath to spare, number 1 goes into labour and then comes the joyous arrival of baby Finn. Life-changing and truly one of the great events of our lives. And brilliantly and wonderfully, I get to hold my grandson every day so I am the luckiest granny on the planet! And now he smiles and wiggles his eyebrows and I am allowed to be the third most important person in his world. Top stuff!
Meanwhile the puppies are growing and we return twice more to look before choosing the smallest one - a black bitch with a splash of white on her face, paws and tip of her tail. I send a whatsapp to the children suggesting three names. No one replies. Why? Because they don't like any of my choices apparently. So after finally deciding against naming her after the Newcastle Falcons winger/RFU Player of the Year*, she is named Darcy because, when she is not digging holes in the lawn, she has four perfect white ballet shoes.
I have, of course, forgotten how much time it takes to train a puppy and this is the first time we have had a puppy on her own rather than having an older dog and a puppy together. In the past, Molly (the mongrel with mental health issues) learnt from Henry (English springer spaniel and father of the legendary Burton Leonard Bertie and he arrived as an adult dog from emigrating friends) and Bobbie (last dog, cocker spaniel of dazzling pedigree and very small brain) learnt from Molly. The consequence of all of this is that each dog picked up the good and bad traits of the previous one. All three were escapologists in their youth, none would every bring back a ball, pheasant, trainer, sock etc and all the above would be buried - usually in the herb garden. Each autumn I would find a selection of items as I cleared the garden for the winter but the socks were generally unwearable by then.
But Darcy has only me to learn from and the pressure is significant. So we are going to puppy school where we join Ella, the frightfully well-behaved and, according to her owner, entirely-motivated-by-food labrador and Suzie, the equally well-behaved corgi. They sit, Darcy socialises. After two sessions, I am nearly ready to throw in the towel - except that Darcy would probably bury it in the herb garden if I showed her how. So we are persevering and in week three, we may... have been top of the class.
But keeping the stuff we are learning and doing as homework inside that little brain is challenging. And how to explain to her that whilst her toilet skills are nearly sublime on dry days, when it's raining she still has to perform outside rather than going outside for ten minutes and then weeing on the conservatory floor. Of course, the whole bodily function thing is front and centre in a house where Finn regularly performs either a poo-nami or a poo-nado, encompassing nappy and complete outfit and calling for major wardrobe changes.
But Darcy may well be the most intelligent of our pack to date. After being given a big telling off after chewing the Sky cable which is bracketed to the skirting board, she disappears to her puppy palace (crate - thank you, Fiona!) in the kitchen, empties it of chew toys which she deposits by the Sky cable in a pile before going back to chewing the one thing she isn't allowed to chew.
Her - and therefore my - achilles heel are the cattle grids. You can't get far from here without crossing two and Bobbie would never actually cross one, involving finding ways round or sitting until someone lifted her over. So we need to learn to get Darcy's dainty ballerina paws across these every day without losing patience and lifting her over. Many, many treats are positioned on each bar to encourage her over. Cattle grids are taking a long time to negotiate but we are getting there.
But most importantly, my beloved is besotted with the new dog (he would have no truck with the last two dogs) so this is progress indeed and despite holes in the lawn and one chewed dummy - a very bad moment as it was close to Finn's bedtime - we are doing well. And sometimes... she even comes when she calls. A work in progress indeed.
Postscript: We had some very sad news this week with the unexpected passing of my oldest friend in Yorkshire, Bob Clayton. I met him on my very first day at the advertising agency I joined aged 20 and we have been friends ever since. He was top godfather to number 2 daughter and our thoughts are very much with Liz, Peter and Caroline and their families. He will be greatly missed.
*Vereniki Goneva - she would have been Niki.
