The Patter of Tiny Paws
Earlier this year, we lost our beloved labradoodle, Polly. The grief is still ongoing. But alongside our sorrow over a unique and precious family member was a more general sense of loss – not having a dog around the house. You get used to it; the companionship, the routine, the clumps of fur cartwheeling around the kitchen. And so, after a few months, we started the search for a new dog.
Inspiration struck one day when I saw a photo online that looked exactly like my husband in a dog costume. I sent it to him, and a little while later he got back to me: ‘I’ve found a breeder!’ The dog was a St Bernard/poodle cross, known as a St Berdoodle. That clinched it – I like a dog whose pedigree I am embarrassed to say out loud. We contacted the breeder, who obligingly put us on the waiting list for a puppy.
Inspiration struck one day when I saw a photo online that looked exactly like my husband in a dog costume.
I sent it to him, and a little while later he got back to me: ‘I’ve found a breeder!’ The dog was a St Bernard/poodle cross, known as a St Berdoodle. That clinched it – I like a dog whose pedigree I am embarrassed to say out loud. We contacted the breeder, who obligingly put us on the waiting list for a puppy.
We should have gone for a rescue, and I do feel guilty about it, but a lot of rescue centres won’t give dogs to families with young kids, and in the end, we decided to be selfish about it. It’s not been the best year, personally, plus the world is going to hell in a handcart, and we wanted this one lovely, indulgent thing to get us through it. To let our boys have the fun and responsibility of raising a puppy, to coo over something impossibly cute, watch her grow from a tiny, wriggling bundle to Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Yes, there is a size issue. St Berdoodles are massive. I raise this with my husband several times as we plan for her arrival.
‘So she’s going to be… big, right?’
‘Phwoargh,’ he replies.
‘But how will we fit her in the boot?’
‘Hubba-hubba,’ he rasps, glued to Facebook pictures of the litter.
We drive to Norfolk to pick her up, rigid with excitement and apprehension. At least, my husband and I are – the boys are focused on the promised McDonald’s stop-off en route. Post-Happy Meal, we arrive at the smallholding, eager to take our bundle home. Her mother, a magnificently scruffy hound, has the air of a frustrated teen desperate to slope off to Ibiza, and keeps running away from her offspring who are still keen to suckle. ‘Will she be upset? Shall we let them say goodbye?’ I ask Debbie the breeder, anxiously. Debbie laughs heartily, suggesting neither party gives a toss. In the car, our new puppy cries a little in her carrier, then settles. We name her Phoebe Beeberbee, after a character in a favourite bedtime story who unwillingly collects hot water bottles but would much rather have a dog.
Back at home, Phoebe explores her new surroundings, as my husband and I congratulate ourselves on enlarging and enriching our family in this wonderful way. The boys play Minecraft, ignoring their new sister. On the first night, penned into an area of the kitchen, Phoebe howls and scratches the hours away, occasionally breaking off to wee on a random bit of the floor that is not her mess tray. The second night passes in much the same way, but with even more howling and weeing. Gritty-eyed, teeth gritted, we call Debbie for advice.
‘She’s lonely,’ she tells us. ‘She grew up in big litter, wants company. Where will she sleep when she’s older?’
My husband and I look at each other. ‘Our last dog slept in our bedroom.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The following night, Phoebe sleeps soundly in our room, waking only briefly to do a gigantic stinking poo, as far away from her mess tray as she can manage. Subsequent nights follow much the same pattern – she wees and poos in fresh and creatively curated places on the floor, but we don’t really care because we’re all sleeping. One night, she decides her tray is in fact the ideal play area, and romps in there until the bedroom is a snow globe of pissy sawdust. ‘We’ll clean it up tomorrow,’ says my husband, wearily turning over in bed.
Phoebe’s toilet training is annoyingly erratic. During the day I constantly clear up her evacuations, following her with wipes as she merrily bustles round the house. Flies gather in the garden, and I start dementedly spraying the flagstones with antibac like Margo Leadbetter. My knuckles crack and bleed from all the hand-washes – I should go full Margo and don rubber gloves but fear Phoebe would see them as yet another enticing toy.
Because she hasn’t had her vaccines yet, she’s not allowed out, so we enter a kind of self-imposed lockdown that drives us all crazy. Occasionally we ring the changes by letting her in the front garden, where she enthusiastically digs a hole and lies in it, panting triumphantly. She eats plants, indoors and out, runs off with socks like she’s in a cartoon, occasionally chews on cables when she’s feeling ultra-daring, gets bigger every time we blink, and occasionally goes missing, throwing us all into a panic until we find her squeezed under a cupboard, eating something she shouldn’t.
‘It’s like having a newborn!’ marvel friends and acquaintances. No, it isn’t. I don’t have a third-degree tear, and no one’s bought us any balloons. Plus, babies don’t bite. Phoebe munches on everything, all the time; her favourite thing to gnaw on is my fingers, and once – agonisingly – my nipple. I guess that was like having a newborn.
One particularly tiring afternoon when my husband and eldest son are out (playing golf, which makes it even more galling), I set the robot hoover off to clean up the various leaves and twigs Phoebe has brought into the house. She’s amusingly livid, barking at this strange round contraption, and I decide this is a great activity. The robot is doing its job, saving me from doing it, and the puppy is entertainingly distracted. Win-win.
It isn’t win-win. It’s lose-lose, and keep-on-losing. While I’m washing up in the kitchen, my scabs smarting, Phoebe - possibly unnerved by the machine - does a rogue poo on the living room rug. The robot is circling, and by the time I reach them, has liberally smeared shit all over the place. My youngest son sits on the sofa, oblivious.
‘Did you not notice that she’d done a poo?’ I ask tremulously, staring in horror at the unspeakable foulness.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, his eyes on the screen. ‘It smelled.’
‘And did you not think to tell me?’
He looks up, incredulous. ‘I was busy gaming.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, still staring. ‘Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.’ I say it a few more times, as the puppy prances, delighted with herself. But taking the Lord’s name in vain does not improve the situation.
We’re now down a rug, and a £250 robot vacuum whose innards are coated in canine excrement. I’m also losing the will to live, and that night drink almost an entire bottle of Prosecco, as friends who’ve come to dinner take great pleasure in my tale of woe and poo. The next morning, hungover to the teeth, I take Phoebe downstairs and watch her refuse to relieve herself in the garden. She lies on the ground mouthing at a leaf, then comes towards me waving a not-so-tiny paw. I sit on the anti-bacced flagstones and she curls into my lap, nibbling on my fingers. My headache recedes, balanced by the pain in my bitten thumb.
I’m writing this slumped on the sofa, while Phoebe sleeps on the hearth in front of me, occasionally twitching at a dream, making all sorts of slumbering-puppy noises. At one point she farts loudly, and wakes herself up, gazing at me in astonishment. I tell her I love her and her tail wags, as oblivious as my gaming son.
I’m glad we did this.
Yes, there is a size issue. St Berdoodles are massive. I raise this with my husband several times as we plan for her arrival.
‘So she’s going to be… big, right?’
‘Phwoargh,’ he replies.
‘But how will we fit her in the boot?’
‘Hubba-hubba,’ he rasps, glued to Facebook pictures of the litter.
We drive to Norfolk to pick her up, rigid with excitement and apprehension. At least, my husband and I are – the boys are focused on the promised McDonald’s stop-off en route. Post-Happy Meal, we arrive at the smallholding, eager to take our bundle home. Her mother, a magnificently scruffy hound, has the air of a frustrated teen desperate to slope off to Ibiza, and keeps running away from her offspring who are still keen to suckle. ‘Will she be upset? Shall we let them say goodbye?’ I ask Debbie the breeder, anxiously. Debbie laughs heartily, suggesting neither party gives a toss. In the car, our new puppy cries a little in her carrier, then settles. We name her Phoebe Beeberbee, after a character in a favourite bedtime story who unwillingly collects hot water bottles but would much rather have a dog.
Back at home, Phoebe explores her new surroundings, as my husband and I congratulate ourselves on enlarging and enriching our family in this wonderful way. The boys play Minecraft, ignoring their new sister. On the first night, penned into an area of the kitchen, Phoebe howls and scratches the hours away, occasionally breaking off to wee on a random bit of the floor that is not her mess tray. The second night passes in much the same way, but with even more howling and weeing. Gritty-eyed, teeth gritted, we call Debbie for advice.
‘She’s lonely,’ she tells us. ‘She grew up in big litter, wants company. Where will she sleep when she’s older?’
My husband and I look at each other. ‘Our last dog slept in our bedroom.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The following night, Phoebe sleeps soundly in our room, waking only briefly to do a gigantic stinking poo, as far away from her mess tray as she can manage. Subsequent nights follow much the same pattern – she wees and poos in fresh and creatively curated places on the floor, but we don’t really care because we’re all sleeping. One night, she decides her tray is in fact the ideal play area, and romps in there until the bedroom is a snow globe of pissy sawdust. ‘We’ll clean it up tomorrow,’ says my husband, wearily turning over in bed.
Phoebe’s toilet training is annoyingly erratic. During the day I constantly clear up her evacuations, following her with wipes as she merrily bustles round the house. Flies gather in the garden, and I start dementedly spraying the flagstones with antibac like Margo Leadbetter. My knuckles crack and bleed from all the hand-washes – I should go full Margo and don rubber gloves but fear Phoebe would see them as yet another enticing toy.
Because she hasn’t had her vaccines yet, she’s not allowed out, so we enter a kind of self-imposed lockdown that drives us all crazy. Occasionally we ring the changes by letting her in the front garden, where she enthusiastically digs a hole and lies in it, panting triumphantly. She eats plants, indoors and out, runs off with socks like she’s in a cartoon, occasionally chews on cables when she’s feeling ultra-daring, gets bigger every time we blink, and occasionally goes missing, throwing us all into a panic until we find her squeezed under a cupboard, eating something she shouldn’t.
‘It’s like having a newborn!’ marvel friends and acquaintances. No, it isn’t. I don’t have a third-degree tear, and no one’s bought us any balloons. Plus, babies don’t bite. Phoebe munches on everything, all the time; her favourite thing to gnaw on is my fingers, and once – agonisingly – my nipple. I guess that was like having a newborn.
One particularly tiring afternoon when my husband and eldest son are out (playing golf, which makes it even more galling), I set the robot hoover off to clean up the various leaves and twigs Phoebe has brought into the house. She’s amusingly livid, barking at this strange round contraption, and I decide this is a great activity. The robot is doing its job, saving me from doing it, and the puppy is entertainingly distracted. Win-win.
It isn’t win-win. It’s lose-lose, and keep-on-losing. While I’m washing up in the kitchen, my scabs smarting, Phoebe - possibly unnerved by the machine - does a rogue poo on the living room rug. The robot is circling, and by the time I reach them, has liberally smeared shit all over the place. My youngest son sits on the sofa, oblivious.
‘Did you not notice that she’d done a poo?’ I ask tremulously, staring in horror at the unspeakable foulness.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, his eyes on the screen. ‘It smelled.’
‘And did you not think to tell me?’
He looks up, incredulous. ‘I was busy gaming.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, still staring. ‘Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.’ I say it a few more times, as the puppy prances, delighted with herself. But taking the Lord’s name in vain does not improve the situation.
We’re now down a rug, and a £250 robot vacuum whose innards are coated in canine excrement. I’m also losing the will to live, and that night drink almost an entire bottle of Prosecco, as friends who’ve come to dinner take great pleasure in my tale of woe and poo. The next morning, hungover to the teeth, I take Phoebe downstairs and watch her refuse to relieve herself in the garden. She lies on the ground mouthing at a leaf, then comes towards me waving a not-so-tiny paw. I sit on the anti-bacced flagstones and she curls into my lap, nibbling on my fingers. My headache recedes, balanced by the pain in my bitten thumb.
I’m writing this slumped on the sofa, while Phoebe sleeps on the hearth in front of me, occasionally twitching at a dream, making all sorts of slumbering-puppy noises. At one point she farts loudly, and wakes herself up, gazing at me in astonishment. I tell her I love her and her tail wags, as oblivious as my gaming son.
I’m glad we did this.
Inspiration struck one day when I saw a photo online that looked exactly like my husband in a dog costume. I sent it to him, and a little while later he got back to me: ‘I’ve found a breeder!’ The dog was a St Bernard/poodle cross, known as a St Berdoodle. That clinched it – I like a dog whose pedigree I am embarrassed to say out loud. We contacted the breeder, who obligingly put us on the waiting list for a puppy.
We should have gone for a rescue, and I do feel guilty about it, but a lot of rescue centres won’t give dogs to families with young kids, and in the end, we decided to be selfish about it. It’s not been the best year, personally, plus the world is going to hell in a handcart, and we wanted this one lovely, indulgent thing to get us through it. To let our boys have the fun and responsibility of raising a puppy, to coo over something impossibly cute, watch her grow from a tiny, wriggling bundle to Clifford the Big Red Dog.
Yes, there is a size issue. St Berdoodles are massive. I raise this with my husband several times as we plan for her arrival.
‘So she’s going to be… big, right?’
‘Phwoargh,’ he replies.
‘But how will we fit her in the boot?’
‘Hubba-hubba,’ he rasps, glued to Facebook pictures of the litter.
We drive to Norfolk to pick her up, rigid with excitement and apprehension. At least, my husband and I are – the boys are focused on the promised McDonald’s stop-off en route. Post-Happy Meal, we arrive at the smallholding, eager to take our bundle home. Her mother, a magnificently scruffy hound, has the air of a frustrated teen desperate to slope off to Ibiza, and keeps running away from her offspring who are still keen to suckle. ‘Will she be upset? Shall we let them say goodbye?’ I ask Debbie the breeder, anxiously. Debbie laughs heartily, suggesting neither party gives a toss. In the car, our new puppy cries a little in her carrier, then settles. We name her Phoebe Beeberbee, after a character in a favourite bedtime story who unwillingly collects hot water bottles but would much rather have a dog.
Back at home, Phoebe explores her new surroundings, as my husband and I congratulate ourselves on enlarging and enriching our family in this wonderful way. The boys play Minecraft, ignoring their new sister. On the first night, penned into an area of the kitchen, Phoebe howls and scratches the hours away, occasionally breaking off to wee on a random bit of the floor that is not her mess tray. The second night passes in much the same way, but with even more howling and weeing. Gritty-eyed, teeth gritted, we call Debbie for advice.
‘She’s lonely,’ she tells us. ‘She grew up in big litter, wants company. Where will she sleep when she’s older?’
My husband and I look at each other. ‘Our last dog slept in our bedroom.’
‘Well, what are you waiting for?’
The following night, Phoebe sleeps soundly in our room, waking only briefly to do a gigantic stinking poo, as far away from her mess tray as she can manage. Subsequent nights follow much the same pattern – she wees and poos in fresh and creatively curated places on the floor, but we don’t really care because we’re all sleeping. One night, she decides her tray is in fact the ideal play area, and romps in there until the bedroom is a snow globe of pissy sawdust. ‘We’ll clean it up tomorrow,’ says my husband, wearily turning over in bed.
Phoebe’s toilet training is annoyingly erratic. During the day I constantly clear up her evacuations, following her with wipes as she merrily bustles round the house. Flies gather in the garden, and I start dementedly spraying the flagstones with antibac like Margo Leadbetter. My knuckles crack and bleed from all the hand-washes – I should go full Margo and don rubber gloves but fear Phoebe would see them as yet another enticing toy.
Because she hasn’t had her vaccines yet, she’s not allowed out, so we enter a kind of self-imposed lockdown that drives us all crazy. Occasionally we ring the changes by letting her in the front garden, where she enthusiastically digs a hole and lies in it, panting triumphantly. She eats plants, indoors and out, runs off with socks like she’s in a cartoon, occasionally chews on cables when she’s feeling ultra-daring, gets bigger every time we blink, and occasionally goes missing, throwing us all into a panic until we find her squeezed under a cupboard, eating something she shouldn’t.
‘It’s like having a newborn!’ marvel friends and acquaintances. No, it isn’t. I don’t have a third-degree tear, and no one’s bought us any balloons. Plus, babies don’t bite. Phoebe munches on everything, all the time; her favourite thing to gnaw on is my fingers, and once – agonisingly – my nipple. I guess that was like having a newborn.
One particularly tiring afternoon when my husband and eldest son are out (playing golf, which makes it even more galling), I set the robot hoover off to clean up the various leaves and twigs Phoebe has brought into the house. She’s amusingly livid, barking at this strange round contraption, and I decide this is a great activity. The robot is doing its job, saving me from doing it, and the puppy is entertainingly distracted. Win-win.
It isn’t win-win. It’s lose-lose, and keep-on-losing. While I’m washing up in the kitchen, my scabs smarting, Phoebe - possibly unnerved by the machine - does a rogue poo on the living room rug. The robot is circling, and by the time I reach them, has liberally smeared shit all over the place. My youngest son sits on the sofa, oblivious.
‘Did you not notice that she’d done a poo?’ I ask tremulously, staring in horror at the unspeakable foulness.
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, his eyes on the screen. ‘It smelled.’
‘And did you not think to tell me?’
He looks up, incredulous. ‘I was busy gaming.’
‘Jesus Christ,’ I say, still staring. ‘Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ.’ I say it a few more times, as the puppy prances, delighted with herself. But taking the Lord’s name in vain does not improve the situation.
We’re now down a rug, and a £250 robot vacuum whose innards are coated in canine excrement. I’m also losing the will to live, and that night drink almost an entire bottle of Prosecco, as friends who’ve come to dinner take great pleasure in my tale of woe and poo. The next morning, hungover to the teeth, I take Phoebe downstairs and watch her refuse to relieve herself in the garden. She lies on the ground mouthing at a leaf, then comes towards me waving a not-so-tiny paw. I sit on the anti-bacced flagstones and she curls into my lap, nibbling on my fingers. My headache recedes, balanced by the pain in my bitten thumb.
I’m writing this slumped on the sofa, while Phoebe sleeps on the hearth in front of me, occasionally twitching at a dream, making all sorts of slumbering-puppy noises. At one point she farts loudly, and wakes herself up, gazing at me in astonishment. I tell her I love her and her tail wags, as oblivious as my gaming son.
I’m glad we did this.
