Is It Just Me? (25 page)

GOOD LUCK AND GOD SPEED

‘So, Miranda, what are we putting to rights next?’ I hear you ask.

Ooh, can it be relationships now, please? Sexy, fun relationships with gorge boys? You have been avoiding this one.

OK, Little M. Fine. It’s got to the point of our journey of life lessons to take a deep breath and embrace the world of relationships. Because there is one rather wonderful relationship in our life at the moment. And I think that now might be the time to tell you about it.

Oh, HOORAY!

Alrighty, here we very much go . . . I invite you all to please tourner la page (‘turn the page’ in French). And let’s get going with the goss . . . Exciting.

A
s I said, MDRC, we’re going to be tackling head-on the complex issue of significant, intimate and personal relationships. And I heartily believe that there’s no more intense relationship than that between a woman and her dog –

Wait, WHAT? This is about a DOG? A
DOG
! You said this was going to be the Big Serious Relationships chapter? You’re telling me it’s about an ANIMAL?

It is about a deeply significant relationship, thank you very much to you. Hands up, we’re not discussing boyfriends here. It’s a dog, but . . .

Stop. I’ve heard enough. This is just one disappointment after another. I’m officially off. I’ve got far better things to do with my time. I was going to miss the debating society for this . . .

You hate the debating society.

We’re debating the Republic versus the Monarchy with the boys’ school.
There are boys in the school
. Boys, not DOGS. And, by the sounds of it, I had better go and get myself married to one immediately to avoid being thirty-eight and talking about a relationship with a PET.
^*
storms off, slamming door behind her
^*

That went well. As I was saying, MDRC – there’s no more interesting relationship than that between a woman and her dog. Well, that’s not quite true. There’s the relationship between a woman and her dry cleaner (does anyone else unnecessarily over-explain stains on garments for fear the dry cleaner may misconstrue?); the relationship between a woman and her handsome yet mysteriously noisy downstairs neighbour (anyone else find it very hard to be cross with someone ‘seriously handsome’? I begin my stern complaint about unacceptable noise levels, then tail off into a girlish giggle and a snort, before scurrying red-facedly away); or the relationship between a woman and her eternally loyal takeaway delivery fellow (anyone else find it odd that you don’t know the name of a person who regularly brings you food when you’ve just got out of the bath?). But the dog/woman dynamic is a rich and mysterious area, which I feel that you and I must make part of our little literary frolic together.

I am the owner/master/boss of a fine beast named Peggy. Peggy is a black-and-white Shih Tzu/Bichon Frise cross (two problematic breeds which have, in Peggy, come together to form something rather wonderful). I prefer, however, to spell Shih Tzu phonetically: Shit Sue. That’s better. A little rude, perhaps, but Peggy doesn’t mind at all. She’s a good-humoured and agreeable beast, a cross between a Bichon Frise and a Shit Sue. I am not sure what the correct term is, but I hereby announce it should be: A Shitty Frise. Nice. (However, if you’re taking one to a Royal Garden Party, you may wish to opt for a Bichon Sue, which is both dainty and pleasingly French-sounding. Up to you.)

I had no plans to own a dog, though I’d always loved them. In my youth, I even did a stint as a volunteer at Battersea Dog’s Home. The bulk of my job involved sitting in the cages socialising with the dogs. All very lovely, until visitors came and peered curiously at me and the dog, through the wire, as if we both needed re-homing. I used to feel awkward and make some weak joke like, ‘I don’t piss on carpets; take me, ha ha ha!’ or, ‘My dad’s a bull mastiff but I’m a poodle at heart!’ (I’d just be stared back at with light pity and disdain, though I like to think the experience left me with the big, sad eyes of a woman who’s just been passed over in favour of a greyhound puppy.) Still, I never saw myself as someone who’d actually
own
a dog, at least, not any time soon; not until I’d retired and gone feral in Cornwall with a smallholding, when a dog would fit nicely in amongst my hordes of chickens, cats, domesticated rabbits and the odd hand-reared-by-the-Aga farm animal. Pet sheep, anyone? Fun. But for now, no.

In fact, I’d always harboured a healthy scepticism about Dog People. To me, they seem to divide into two equally loony camps. Camp One consists mainly of Home-Counties owners who call their dogs things like Suki, Emily, George, Bella and Jaaaaasper. (That’s ‘Jasper’ to you and me, but when pronounced with a Home-Counties elongated ‘a’, it becomes Jaaaaasper – please feel free to try it.) These dog owners are quite strict with their mutts and are always wandering around the park barking orders (pun absolutely intended and joyously so – am more thrilled than normal with that one) very loudly: ‘Suki. Here now, please’ or ‘George, stop that!’ and ‘Bella, come, Bella, come; come, Bella, Bella come’ with ‘Jaaaaasper heel, Jaaaaasper heel, Jaaaaasper will you HEEL, and put that
down
, put that DOWN; I am
so
sorry, I think he thinks your three-year-old’s a joint of beef.’ These dog people have children at home also called things like Suki, Emily, George, Bella and Jaaaaasper. And the children get barked at, too: ‘Emily, bed. Bed, Emily’ and ‘
Greens
George, eat your greens, NOW; George, George – greens’ or ‘Boarding school, Bella, to boarding school, Bella –
BOARDING SCHOOL
!’

Then there’s Camp Two. These owners can be found throughout almighty pet-loving Great Britain. They call their dogs more traditional doggy names, like Pippin, Mitsy, Treacle or Buttons. They often costume their dogs (dungarees, standard party pet kaftans, sou’westers, pretty summer dresses), or chose to adorn themselves with images of their dog (‘I Heart Treacle’ T-shirts, dog-face-printed baseball hats, temporary tattoos). Their Christmas card is a picture of both themselves and their dog wearing Santa hats, looking ‘merry’. Such fun! If they’re of the Christmas newsletter persuasion then it’ll say ‘Love from Chris and Fiona and Pippin xxx’ and there’ll be a paw print at the bottom of the page.

Some of these people also experience the phenomenon of looking quite a lot like their dog. How does that happen? Do they deliberately choose a dog that looks like them? Or do they really not know it’s happening? I know somebody with a long-coated red setter who looks
just
like her dog. A long face, gangly limbs, red hair. They’re a pretty pair, I grant you, but I find it all most disturbing.

In both of these camps the message is: our dog is a key member of our family unit; we treat him/her/it as an equal. We give Christmas and birthday presents to them and vice versa. We know they know it’s a special day. We have regular arguments about who they love most in the family and whose turn it is to play with them. We see absolutely nothing odd about this at all, thank you very much indeed.

‘None of that madness for me!’ I said to myself, as I spent years striding cheerfully dog-free through parks. Then along came Peggy. She belonged to a friend. I met her as a puppy. She was a black-and-white ball of fluff that fitted into the palm of my hand, and would sometimes retreat, scared, from the world and snuggle into my empty trainer. How could I refuse? I tried to resist her, I really did: I said, ‘No, I am a sane adult woman, I have no need of a dog, I will not become One Of The Dog People, never.’ But then I looked down at that pleading little fluff-bundle face and . . . I took her. I didn’t nick her, you understand – it was all formally arranged. She became mine.

And now, every day with Peggy is a test of my mettle. Can a woman love her dog, nurture it and care for it and meet its every need, without going stark raving pet-obsessed bonkers?

I think I manage it. I’m doing OK. I don’t have any photographs of my dog on display (well, apart from the two framed ones on my desk). I don’t let her up on the furniture (she’s only on the sofa now for a little treat). And it’s not like she sleeps on my bed or anything (look, last night was an exception – it was her birthday). But, OK, hang on, at least Peggy’s not noisy or troublesome (she’s recently taken it upon herself to act as my protector, barking furiously whenever a male human approaches. Which explains a lot, if we’re honest). It’s not like I found myself saying to a friend, speaking on behalf of Peggy: ‘Sorry, we’re a little cross today, aren’t we?’ (I did, I did, I actually
did
). And it’s not as if I’ve bought my dog a monogrammed side plate for her to eat off, whilst sitting up at table with the rest of the family (one will be arriving from Argos within thirty working days).

‘Oh, dear. Oh, deary, deary me,’ I hear you sigh. I sense your disappointment. But it’s hard, isn’t it? Are any of you reading this with a little furry friend beside you in bed, on the sofa, on your lap? Do you get sucked into those trusting eyes that stare up at you, hoping for love? Are you convinced you know what they’re thinking? Do you look at them with more love than you ever thought you could feel for another living thing?

Please tell me this isn’t just me and my family? I caught my father, who professes to find the cats I lumbered my parents with a complete bore, chatting away to Tommy – his favourite – whilst carrying him from the bottom of the garden back to the house to give him some food. I heard him saying, ‘Guess what I’ve got in store for you, Tommy. Oh, yes, that’s right, a delicious plate of tuna.’ And then he asked him, ‘What have you been getting up to, eh? Are you going off a-hunting tonight? Would you mind ever so refraining from leaving any mice on the doorstep? What’s that? I know you mean it as a present, but you really needn’t.’ Even he can’t help going a bit wonky for a lovely furry friend. What
happens
to us, MDRC?

I have also been known to have full-blown, freakishly intense conversations with my parents about how well the pets are getting on with each other: ‘Sorry, Dad, I think Peggy chased Milly away from the food.’

‘No, that’s fine, she deserves it.’

‘D’you think? You wouldn’t say that about Tommy, would you, Dad?’

‘I think I probably would.’

‘You’ve always liked Tommy best. How do you think that makes Milly feel?’

‘Milly doesn’t know!’

‘Oh, Milly knows, Dad.
Milly knows.
And it’s her birthday today, she knows that.’

‘Oh, yes, have we given her the little gift yet?’

‘I am not sure she deserves one after what she got me last Christmas.’

‘I thought you liked that dancing elf.’

‘Well, at least it wasn’t a Dictaphone.’

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’

I know, I know. I had better get some air and mull this all over. Come on, Peggy, walkies. Walkies, Peggy! Come on then, you. Let’s put on your collar. What a pretty collar you have – don’t you look pretty?

Stop it, Miranda. STOP IT.
^*
slams house door shut, strides off out into the world
^*