It’s fair to say that until the fulsome age of 53, my relationship with dogs, man’s best friend, was fraught with fear. ‘Dogs, be keeping your distance!’ was the sign drilled into our door.
Why, I hear you ask as you pull your furry friend closer, indignant, even insulted at my admission. Hear me out. There’s meaning in my madness.
My first proper encounter with dogs was my aunt’s Alsatians. Her first dog, Kimmey was a gentle soul; happy to lie on the rug for hours, occasionally stirring from slumber for a nonchalant stroll down the street, followed by a spot in the sun. He was grateful for the treats I surreptitiously sneaked to him, away from my aunt’s beady eyes. When Kimmey died, an altogether different Alsatian entered the scene. Rex was like every one of my aunt’s dogs, devoted and obeying of her every command, something she basked in as it fed her penchant for power. It also gave her the upper hand in any disagreement with a towering trump card – Rex, not so much barking at us but howling with focus and fury as only an animal spawned from the devil could. The day of reckoning came when I was sitting nervously in her lounge and Rex started having the mother of all fits. My aunt mouthed at me not to move a muscle. If I did, Rex was likely to attack. As you can imagine, I had no intention of feeding myself to this Dingo in pet dog’s clothing. That feeling of profound fear was not something I could shake off.
My mistrust of dogs was mounting.
My next encounter of the alarming kind was with my friend’s dog, Jamie. For some reason, Jamie took a strong dislike to me, evidenced by the fact that every time we bunked off school to my friend’s house, a mere stone’s throw from school, I had to run the gauntlet of Jamie trying to nip my ankles, something he succeeded at on several occasions. Little wonder my bunking off days came to an abrupt halt and I became a star student.
There are more stories. Take my aunt Betty’s poodle, an animal I felt searingly self-conscious about, especially when taking her for walkies, a holiday task thrust upon me for a pittance. Aunty Betty insisted on dressing the poor animal with bows and ribbons which did nothing for my street cred as an awkward young girl with ginger hair. Put those two together and you’re a sitting target for all manner of mockery. There was also the time when a friend’s dog took such a dislike to me that it took every ounce of her strength to pull the animal away from a full on launch, before he had me for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
And so, I ambled through life, dog free, encouraging my two sons to invest in hamsters and gerbils, small pets with no prospect of pinning me to the sofa.
All bets were off however, when Psmith, the French Bulldog entered my life.
My youngest son had always talked of having a dog, a notion neither I nor Mr B entertained. Now with his own home and a wonderful wife, also a lover of dogs, he was free to ignore us. When he announced the arrival of Psmith (named after the character in the PG Wodehouse books with a silent P) I oscillated between wariness and wilting.
Until they brought Psmith to our home, that is.
Somewhere between Psmith’s introduction to us and my son gently placing him in my arms I knew I was smitten. Protest was futile. Years of fits, nips, barking and bites, melted away.
This little chap was a winner, and I fell in love. If you have a French bulldog, you’ll know they’re slightly ridiculous looking dogs with their big pointy ears, flat wrinkled faces and a repertoire of noises, grunts, and snores worthy of a sit com. Facial expressions? Think permanent mischief with a slightly quizzical look until it’s ‘treat time’, that is, and their demeanour changes to steely determination; eyes on the prize, monitoring your every move. They love being stroked and petted and woe betide you if you try and break off from said stroking activities to revive your dead arm. You’ll be paw patted into submission.
Psmith and I got along famously from day one with many zoom calls ‘enhanced’ by his loud snoring, followed by barking on boom when a leaf blew across the drive or the post man had the audacity to ring the doorbell. Such was, still is, our mutual love and respect, that early on I offered to doggy sit Psmith every Wednesday with an overnight stay until Thursday lunchtime. He’s been my little loyal companion for many years, following me around the house, eventually settling beside me on the sofa where I’ve learned the art of typing with one hand, the other devoted to stroking duties.
When he had a major operation on his spine, I took time off work to sit beside him because he couldn’t move a muscle…I know how that felt. It’s quite astonishing, the in depth conversations you can have with a dog and how you often find the answer to life’s most persistent problems simply by looking into those big brown eyes and decoding the grunts and licks.
In the early years, Psmith loved his walks, the longer the better, with regular sorties to the red river, me chasing after him, yelling in vain as he disappeared into the bushes, only to emerge sopping wet, covered in mud, then coating me as he switched to full spin cycle. Now that he’s an old man, we’ve mothballed the walks, at his insistence. He has mastered the art of grinding to a halt with no prospect of moving a muscle. On the rare occasions I have managed to drag him around the block, usually by laying a trail of treats, he’s made clear his feelings for his fellow pooches, leaving me muttering to a bemused dog owner that: “he loves people not dogs…” An explanation hardly needed, considering his frenzied launch at their well-behaved bear of a dog.
Now that dear little Psmith is in his dotage, having reached ten years, I find myself occasionally reflecting on life beyond the face licks, paw patting and treat trails. Psmith, you had better not plan on going anywhere any time soon. Your Grand-pup-ma and family need you.
About Dee Blick
Commissioning Editor, Dee, is something of a writer.
In fact, she has written five books of note, with her sixth now safe and sound at her publishers, scheduled for release in November. Her most recent book, The Boutique, is a collection of nine gritty and moving short stories, with each character connected through their appreciation of a fashion shop. She has just finished writing her fifth marketing book – You’re the Best! How to build an authentic and magnetic personal brand. When Dee is not writing books, you’ll find her writing articles like this one or heading to a local café to satisfy her desire for sourdough toast with marmite, accompanied by Pear and Apple juice.
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