The patter of tiny paws

While I was in New Zealand, my boyfriend and I indulged in a lot of fantasising about our future lives; the house we might have, the area we might live in, the children we might (eventually) decide are a good idea, the wedding we might have, the lives we might lead. This usually concluded with me ruining such indulgences by stroppily highlighting the fact that all of these things were well out of our reach for approximately two years, and not helped by the fact that many of my friends are in the process of doing some if not all of the above.

I had just about accepted the fact that, while I wasn’t particularly pleased about waiting what seemed to be a really long time to begin this future, there wasn’t an awful lot I could do about it.

Then I went to see my SP. And the puppies.

My boyfriend’s sister and her fiancée are currently in the process of choosing a puppy, as I had repeatedly told my boyfriend (even though he already knew). It was something I so desperately wanted, and my boyfriend had tempted me with the vision of getting one during my stay at home.

But I didn’t want that, that wasn’t part of the plan. I didn’t want a puppy to be mine. I wanted it to be ours. Not just to share in numerous vet bills, insurance, food and other miscellaneous and expensive pet related things, but because I wanted it to be part of our family, the three of us, a complete unit. I already had given up our flat and then later been forced to give up our car, only to be replaced with what is financially mine. There was nothing left, nothing physical to bind us. I didn’t want it to be my dog. I wanted it to be ours.

But something changed when I saw the puppies again and was flooded with how they made me feel (when they weren’t pissing on my bed/trying to violently abuse each other/eating plaster). When we left, all I could think about was that companionship, that place to aim this ridiculous excess of love that I have nothing to aim at in my boyfriend’s absence.

I tentatively broached the subject of perhaps getting a dog in the foreseeable future with my parents. Of course it wasn’t the most sensible idea I had come up with in a while, but it wasn’t the most ridiculous (most of those remain heavily sedated and are held beneath a large helping of common sense or the fear of being ridiculed if I were to release them).

To my surprise, they were okay about it. Once we had talked about the idea in principle, they were actually quite excited about it, despite me gently (for fear of disturbing the practicality within them) reminding them that it was their house and puppies are messy, noisy, time consuming, attention demanding and not the most cat friendly of creatures.

So in a whirlwind my boyfriend and I embarked on the tricky decision of breeds.

I initially had romantic notions of an Akita, until we discovered they killed cats and other small animals and generally did not like other dogs. Then I explored the idea of a Siberian Husky. Also not the best choice if we didn’t want to impound it within a fence that extended not only nine foot in the air but also a fair way underground and weren’t prepared to subject ourselves for a good fifteen years with an escape artist.

We battered through the usual suggestions of medium sized dogs, all of which were discarded for either wanting to antagonise our cats, being terrible with children, being terrible with other dogs or simply quite ugly.

It was looking pretty bleak. My mum suggested gently that perhaps I was going to have to go for a dog that perhaps wasn’t quite as pretty as I would have liked.

Then my boyfriend asked me about our previous family dog, a Norwegian Elkhound.

Our dog was one of the most beautiful dogs I have ever seen, as all doting family members will always say about their departed pets. But ours really was. He was incredibly good natured, wonderful with children, happy sleeping but equally as happy going for W.A.L.Ks. He was a part of the family as any of us, and to my dad I think he was perhaps more so. To the disturbing point that he is currently in a box under his bed (albeit in ashes).

After I’d finished indulging in my reminisce, he said ‘well why don’t we get one of those?’.

Why indeed?

Why? Because our dog barked. Consistently and incredibly loudly. The Norwegian Elkhounds are bred for barking contests in Norway and I think he was attempting to compete, just from Cornwall. As a child and then a teenager it was very embarrassing and incredibly annoying to endure the consistent barking on car journeys. The barking would begin more or less as we left home and would be triggered by the car slowing down, speeding up, turning a corner, and generally any other movement that he noticed as being different from the last.

We forgave him, of course, as best we could, which was occasionally through gritted teeth.

But that was it. That was his only fault. He didn’t smell, he didn’t jump up, he didn’t bite, he endured my cat’s endless love, he adored his food like the rest of us. He was the perfect family dog.

So after many thoughts and learning that in fact our particular dog had ‘liked the sound of his own voice’ according to his breeder, last week we decided to contact a breeder of our own.

After initially choking on the rather offensive cost of an Elkhound puppy considering how small they are and how much mess they make, I submitted our name. The litter is to be born on the 20th of September and we should get it, all being well, when my boyfriend returns for a brief spell at the end of the year.

The thought of having a (noisy) part of our future in reach has been the most amazing feeling for us both. It is something else to focus on, not the wishing away of time, but what the time will involve in between.

It won’t be easy without him, but I have learnt a lot from my time with the puppies and, while I am sure I will make the same mistakes with mine as I did with them (it’s really not a good idea to accidentally allow them access to the food bag) at least I will remember shortly afterwards.