The Puppy That Came for Christmas

Table of Contents

 

 

A PLUME BOOK

MEGAN RIX was born in London and lived in America, New Zealand, and Singapore before marrying her husband, Ian, and settling in England with their dog, Traffy.

PLUME

Published by the Penguin Group

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Published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. Previously published in Great Britain by Penguin Books Ltd.

First Plume Printing, November 2011

Copyright © Megan Rix, 2010

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ISBN : 978-1-101-55867-6

 

 

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I crouched down beside the traveling crate and watched the two beautiful creamy-colored golden-retriever/ Labrador-cross puppies snuggled up together, nose to tail in a ball, fast asleep. Six-and-a-half weeks old, just left Mum, and in a few moments I'd be taking one of them home.

Three months before, I'd never even thought about having a dog. But then, two years ago, I hadn't imagined I'd meet Ian that May, get engaged in Paris on his birthday (in August), and married on Waikiki Beach on my birthday (the following March). Two years ago, I was a determinedly single woman who hadn't thought much about fertility treatment or IVF, although at forty-three perhaps it was inevitable I'd have to if I wanted children. But it had all happened, and now here I was: about to take a new puppy life into my hands. Was I ready for this?

“Of course you are—or at least you'll have to be,” I'd murmured as I looked myself in the eyes in the mirror, grabbed the car keys and hurried out of the door, heart thumping, to go and pick the puppy up.

As I looked down at the puppies, I had no idea that, however unprepared Ian and I were for the joys, challenges and downright disruptions of puppy parent life, it would be nothing compared with how unprepared we'd be to relinquish our beloved puppy when she passed on to the next stage of her training to become a Helper Dog for disabled people. The sun streamed into the crate and shone on the little dogs' fur. One of them whimpered; its back leg jerked, it gave itself a little scratch, and settled down again, asleep all the while. I had never seen anything so beautiful or so vulnerable.

“So sweet,” I whispered.

Jamie, who ran the Helper Dogs center, nodded and whispered back in his gentle Scottish burr: “Yours is the little girl at the back. What do you think of the name Emma for her?”

“Emma,” I repeated. “Lovely.” Any name at all, in fact, would be lovely.

I took a deep breath and reached down to pick up the tiny warm bundle . . .

 

Before we were married, Ian was my best friend and always able to make me laugh—although considering we met on a stand-up comedy course that was hardly surprising. In fact, it was only luck that we ended up on the course at the same time. I should have started earlier, but I'd been asked to do some research and writing overseas, and had written three children's books in three different countries. Ian, though usually far more punctual than me, had also failed to attend the course at his first attempt due to overload at work, at a bank in the city. As part of our homework, the tutor told us to go out to comedy shows, to sensitize our ears to how to deliver a joke. I didn't like the idea of late-night gigs and the last tube home, so I arranged a class trip on a Sunday afternoon to see some stand-up in North London. I got terribly lost on the way and turned up late, all of a fluster. The pub was almost empty, voices and footsteps descending to the venue below, but there Ian was, the only one who had waited, obviously delighted to see me and not at all in a panic. He bought me a drink and we went downstairs.

After the show, Ian and I were left to talk together. His Stockport accent reminded me of good times spent as a student in Manchester, and we found we'd both worked with people with severe learning difficulties. Our friends seemed to melt away and time slipped by until we, alone now, decided to go to another comedy club up the road. Ian offered to drive us in his car. I thought he said he had a Jeep, so I was surprised when he held the passenger door open on a brand-new convertible BMW. He'd actually been trying to say he had GPS navigation, to reassure me we wouldn't get lost, and I'd misheard in the hubbub of the bar. We arrived in good time, and in fine style with the roof down, but the misunderstanding—and his concern for my well-being—made me realize how caring and lovely he was. From that evening on we were on the phone or meeting up just about every day.

Ian's most common material for his comedy sketches was his family. He'd had a terrible childhood, he'd say, leaning on the mic with a small, wry smile, and then relate some awful, but awfully funny, incident. There was the time he fell out of the backseat of the car and his dad carried on driving because no one had noticed. The time he was going on a school trip and the minibus drove past his mum lying drunk on the pavement. How he and his sister loved
Coronation Street
because they knew when they heard the theme it would be safe to go home—Mum and Dad would have stopped fighting and gone off to work. For a long time I thought he was exaggerating—surely nobody's parents could be that bad. I didn't realize he was deliberately underplaying what he'd experienced.

Right the way through the course, I was still insisting to my friends that Ian and I were strictly platonic, but deep down I knew very quickly that we were soul mates. Whenever we went to see comedy, he'd do something nice for me—give me his coat when I was cold, buy me some flowers, or insist that he take me for a bite to eat before dropping me off at my flat. He was also an amazing cook. One day, when I was out on a course, he based himself for the afternoon at my flat, planning to take in a football game at my local pub later, as we were going to see some comedy together that evening. He'd been telling me all week about the crunch fixture that weekend—he was a huge Manchester United fan—but when I got home there was a pork and cider casserole steaming on the dinner table. He'd gone to the shops instead of the pub, bought a slow cooker and the ingredients and then stayed in all afternoon cooking.

Going from being friends to falling in love was only the smallest of steps.

 

Soon after the course finished, he asked me to go to the Dublin Writers Festival with him, and after that the Z4 frequently found itself parked outside my flat. Then, after a while, Ian would often leave me the car even when he was at home in the East Midlands, as he was worried about my old banger falling apart driving up the motorway to see him. Even my mum loved the BMW. I'd take her out into the countryside for a pub lunch, talking about Ian all the time. She didn't usually want me to put the top down because it played havoc with her hair. I'd got used to having haystack hair—it was worth it in my opinion.

 

Mum cried when I told her Ian and I were getting married.

“We probably won't be having kids,” I said. We'd talked about it and thought it best not to, as we were both nearly forty (OK, let's not pretend, I was distinctly north of forty). “And he wants to have a wedding where it's just the two of us. We're thinking maybe of Hawaii.”

I didn't tell her about Ian's particular reasons for wanting a small wedding, but Mum didn't mind. The important thing was that I'd found someone special. We weren't exactly young lovebirds, but I think that for her that made it even more precious.

Despite what I'd told my mum about not getting pregnant, and quashing her grandmotherly hopes in the process, by the time we got engaged I'd started to think—or maybe obsess would be a better word—about what a great dad Ian would make. He is so loving and kind and patient that any child would be lucky to have him for a father. We decided we'd let nature take its course. If I got pregnant, good. And if I didn't, we said that'd be fine too, though in my heart of hearts I yearned for a baby.