Buster — the dog in my life for more than 15 years — died at a quarter to twelve on the morning of Friday, October 30 last year. Many of the condolence letters that followed offered suggestions about the best way to assuage my grief. The most common were “buy another dog at once” and “remember that you and Buster will walk together on the hills of Heaven.” My reaction was identical to George Eliot’s comment on the idea of God and immortality. “How inconceivable the first and how unbelievable the second.”
But I never doubted that, sooner or later, Buster would have — not a replacement, for he was irreplaceable — but a successor. My doubts were about when the search would begin and how I could find the dog I wanted — young, male, lively and sufficiently unlike Buster to avoid comparison. Dinah, the first dog I called my own, came from the farmer who delivered our milk. Sixty years on, I searched the internet.
I was looking for a “rescue dog” on the websites of the “refuges”, which are both the disgrace and glory of a dog-loving nation — disgrace because so many dogs are abandoned, and glory because so many people give time and money to save them from starvation.
Refuge websites are submerged in a sea of advertisements from commercial breeders. Exploration of that alien territory confirmed my conviction that a dog should be for life, not for profit. The offer of two “eight-week-old Staffs, £150 each. £250 for both” was depressingly reminiscent of unwanted goods, offloaded in an end of year clearance sale. And my telephone inquiries about “Ten Cairn Puppies: £500 each” did nothing to allay my fears that when dogs are marketed like any other commodity, their future welfare is not uppermost in the vendor’s mind. The idea of checking on the suitability of the new home and owner was dismissed as “a lot of fuss”. Cash and proof that the purchaser was over 17 would secure an immediate sale.
Refuges see things differently. They examine a prospective owner’s credentials with the thoroughness of a North Korean border guard. Why do you want a dog? Have you owed a dog before? Do you own one now? Does your house have a garden? Is it fenced? Have you any idea how much it costs to keep a dog? Do you propose to take it for regular walks? Are there children in your family? Do you all want a dog? Are you willing for us to make a home visit?
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I admit to both irritation and impotence. Surrounded by other applicants, I told myself that the interrogation was designed for them, not me. But I was wrong.
This winter, the refuges have been full to bursting. In hard economic times, leaving a dog by the side of the road is an easy way to cut a pound or two from the household budget. So, in theory, I had plenty of choice. But dog after dog — young, male and, according to the website, available – looked distressingly like Buster. Brindle Staffordshire bull terriers, pure or crossed, are popular until they begin to chew the carpet. And they are confused, by the neurotic and ill-informed, with prohibited breeds.
On New Year’s Eve, deep in dogless depression, I saw a photograph of Harley, a “chocolate brown labrador cross”, on the Blue Cross Trust’s Bromsgrove Website. I decided at once that he was the dog for me.
A combination of snow and bank holidays made it impossible to see him for three days. Desperate to be assured that he was still looking for a home, I telephoned and e-mailed everyone I knew at Blue Cross. Eventually, Harley was “reserved” for the half day that Blue Cross rules allow. By the time I drove south on Sunday January 3, he had become an obsession.
Harley was all that the website had promised — handsome, amiable and biddable. He came when called, sat when instructed and walked, more a less, in a straight line without pulling on his lead. He was also a little more than 42kg in weight and still growing. One of his parents (I thought it indelicate to inquire which) was a bull mastiff. Despite his fearsome inheritance Harley had an affectionate disposition, which he displayed by leaning on any human being who stood near him. I am 6ft tall and considerably overweight. But when Harley leant on me, my knees buckled.
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I felt emotionally committed. So to leave without him seemed like a betrayal. Walking again round the Bromsgrove compound (carefully avoiding standing still) I convinced myself that I could manage him and, back in the office, announced that I intended to take him home to Derbyshire at once. Permission was refused. It is Blue Cross policy to insist on a second meeting before the “adoption” is authorised.
I suppressed my resentment, asked for Harley to be reserved until my next visit and drove, disgruntled, home. Halfway there, I realised the wisdom of the policy that I resented. It was just possible that Harley was right for me. But I was not right for him. He needed an owner half my age and a life of unremitting exertion.
Twenty miles from home, across the Nottinghamshire border, I found Thornberry Sanctuary. I was tempted by Nelson, a black labrador with only one eye. But he was middle-aged and I do not want bereavement in five or six years. Sentimentalists — among whom I do not usually number — promise that “the right dog will find you”. That is what happened at Thornberry. Jake, an eight-month-old, snow white, English bull terrier, found wandering in the streets of Bolsover on Christmas Day, rolled his ball out of the bars of his cage towards me.
It was not love at first sight. That only happens once in a dog-owning lifetime. But I wanted him enough to overlook that he is a thoroughbred. He is not, and never will be, quite mine. In law, he remains the property of Thornberry: an arrangement that allows the sanctuary to recall him if I fail to fulfil my obligations to him. He was neither neutered nor chipped, but I was allowed to arrange both procedures, enabling him to return from his operation to a bed beside the Aga rather than a kennel in the refuge. Forty eight hours after the chip was due to be inserted, I was asked to confirm that the deed had been done. I rejoiced that Jake’s best interests were being protected. And I was happy. I had a dog again.
The fee for this article has been donated to Thornberry Animal Rescue