The Gentle Pitter Patter of Giant Hairy Paws

With my boyfriend coming home, him being unemployed, us with horrific loans to pay off (my car; his training) and living with my parents, we assumed the most sensible thing to do was buy a puppy.

It has been hard to convince everyone else of our incomprehensible logic. People gently encouraged us to wait a little, to consider our options, to take our time. My SP warned me of the stress and strain it would put on us as a couple, on our relationship. My parents encouraged us to look at the future, where we would be, what we would be doing.

We felt we had fulfilled all of these criteria a just week after he had returned (our discussions being escalated to their conclusions after spending a weekend with my boyfriend’s sister’s 9 week old retriever). In our defence, we had gone to great lengths in discussing the subject before his unexpected homecoming, and our evenings on his return had been consumed with reading, learning, discussing, dreaming.

We had lost out on our original Elkhound puppy when the breeder had just had 4 puppies in the litter. We reconsidered our options, considering we had approximately no money whatsoever between us, and began scouring for a cross, a mongrel of some sort, an accident that was young enough not to want to kill our three aging cats and was going at a reasonable price.

We searched papers, noticeboards, freeads, online. Again and again we turned up Collies and Retrievers and Labradors and German Shepherds. Nothing within our price range, nothing that wasn’t pedigree and nothing, more importantly, that we could both agree on.

So (don’t attempt to join the dots, I have tried over the last week and still can’t quite figure out how we got from A to B), a week ago today he disappeared into the depths of North Devon and returned with a 13 week old big ball of black fluff. A 13 week old 15kg big ball of Newfoundland black fluff to be precise. And she was the runt of the litter. And definitely not in our price range.

Our lives have been completely and utterly turned upside down. I am happier than I have been in a very, very long time. And totally head over heels in love.

I didn’t think it could happen like this. I didn’t think I could feel this strongly, could care this much, for an animal. I would be embarrassed to the degree that I adore her, if I was alone in my emotional dependence. But my boyfriend has become her playmate, her friend, her partner, her leader of the pack. I am merely an added extra, a two-for-the-price-of-one. I am often the bearer of food and other such efforts to buy into the degree of affection for which she expresses to him, but he has won her heart, her respect and her trust. She will come to me, if she likes. She will obey my commands, if she feels like it. She will play with me contentedly, excitedly, enthusiastically, until he appears and instantly I will become a distant memory, a forgotten playmate as she bounds over to him, legs flailing, ears flapping, tongue lolling.

I always said I didn’t want a slobbery dog. I said I didn’t want one that shed volumes of hair. I said I wanted a dog I could manage, I could control.

Fully grown, Newfys slobber consistently, shed all year around, weigh more than me and can pull a cart with four people in (I’ve seen the pictures).

Even now, after a week, she is the size of a small Labrador. But she is the very model of everything we had read about Newfys. She is gentle, affectionate, loving, desperate for companionship, reasonably obedient (although has curious selective hearing), and adores people and animals alike.

She has transformed our lives. I discovered a trail of black hairs in the computer tray yesterday. Our bathroom is like a Chinese laundry. Our floors are littered with donated copies of the Daily Mail (she likes peeing on the headlines). We have a series of hurdles to cross to get into any of the bedrooms. I have a vast amount of my wardrobe donated to the cause of Puppy Play. She is our last and first thought (especially when we are woken in the middle of the night by the overwhelming Eau d’Dogshit).

I asked my boyfriend yesterday whether he minded that, since we got her, I had merged rather a little too easily even for my liking, into the very essence of Cornish Girl, with wellies now a permanent feature and a selection of waterproofs always close to hand. He pointed out that that didn’t bother him particularly, but the rather unsightly stain of slobber and possibly some food remains that had adorned a large patch on the front of my hoodie for several days, unnoticed for me, perhaps wasn’t so pleasant.

We are permanently exhausted, and incredibly happy. We have our family unit. My boyfriend, me and our slobbery, hairy, big, black, baby girl.