The Puppy That Came for Christmas (18 page)

I'd never met a St. Bernard before and neither had Freddy, so we went to say hello. The man, a rather slight fellow, almost dwarfed by his two heavyweights, was glad that we did. Most people were intimidated by the size of the St. Bernards, both male, he said, and consequently he felt nervous sometimes about letting them off their leads. I felt sorry for the dogs: how were they supposed to learn how to play with other dogs if they weren't given the chance? Helper Dogs recommends letting young puppies off their leads, in a safe environment, as soon as they've had their injections. I'd initially been nervous about doing so with Emma, but I'd learned that all puppies naturally want to stay close at that age; so I had relaxed with Freddy when he was a young pup.

“I took them to a puppy socialization class, when they were little—or at least younger, I mean,” said Mr. St. Bernard, “but the guy in charge said they frightened the other puppies during off-lead time, and I had to keep them on their leads.”

It must have been torture for them. Puppies have to play; denying them is like denying a child. I felt sorry for his dogs, and because Freddy was so good at playing and putting other dogs at ease I suggested they could have a go.

“Are you sure?” said Mr. St. Bernard doubtfully. “Maybe I'll just let this one off.” He unclipped the lead of one of the St. Bernards, and the dog and Freddy began to play. They didn't look exactly comfortable, but I put this down to the big dog's lack of practice. The other St. Bernard, which was still on its lead, almost pulled the man over in his eagerness to join in.

Then, before I'd realized what was happening—maybe even before the dogs had a chance to realize what was going on—disaster struck. The first dog maneuvered Freddy in front of the second and the leashed dog bit Freddy, who gave a yelp of pain and ran off across the field. Without thinking, I grabbed the collar of the free dog. The man managed to clip its lead back on and yanked the two St. Bernards back in order. A police-dog handler I'd met at Helper Dogs had told me that if your dog is attacked and you put its lead back on while the other dog is still free, it is then even more vulnerable to attack from the aggressive dog, trapped and unable to move or defend itself freely. So I made sure the owner had his large, overexcited St. Bernards under control, and as soon as both dogs were secure, I called Freddy back from where he was standing, watching us across the long grass. Good boy that he was, he came, if a little hesitantly, back across the meadow. I couldn't see any serious injuries on him, so I decided it was just an unfriendly nip, and after saying goodbye to the St. Bernards, I immediately found some friendlier—smaller—dogs to play with for a while, to banish the bad memories.

Back at home, Freddy's breeder, Donna, popped around for a coffee. Freddy was very excited to see her and ran to find his pink unicorn to show her while I went into the kitchen.

“How's he getting on?” Donna asked.

“Great,” I said.

“So he'll be moving on to advanced training soon?”

“Mmm.” I poured milk into the coffees. I didn't want to think about that.

“My friend Marion is thinking of breeding her pedigree Golden Retriever, Sugar. You should phone her, Meg.”

“But . . . I don't think we could deal with another dog on top of the puppy we're parenting.”

“You could just go and have a look at them—it wouldn't mean you were committed, but if you didn't get in quick they could all be gone.”

It didn't feel right to be looking at other puppies when we hadn't even had Freddy all that long. Freddy was gnawing on a chew beneath the table between us, smack bang in the center of the room, and center of my attention, even though I couldn't see him. It would feel like cheating on your husband—worse almost, since the victim was so vulnerable, innocent and blameless.

“But Sugar isn't even pregnant yet.”

“No, but she will be soon and the sire Marion's thinking of mating her with has won Crufts. She's using the same sire that I used for Freddy. You could have Freddy's half-brother or sister. You should see the little girls Sugar has,” Donna said, taking a swig of her coffee. “They're so pretty . . . These puppies are going to be very popular.”

“All right, all right, I'll phone Marion,” I said.

Donna read out the number from her mobile phone.

Marion answered after two rings and I confusedly explained to her my situation as far as I understood it—which wasn't far—tripping over my tongue as I groped obscurely for the words to express the twisted knot of emotions bound up inside me.

“You see, we've got a Helper Dogs puppy, but he's going to be moving on soon, and we're taking in another after, because they'll give us one when he leaves, and we couldn't take another puppy on top of that . . .” I trailed off. “But I'd love to come and see them.”

“Oh, that'd be fine,” said Marion. “You could come anytime, but I'm not sure if I should breed from Sugar at the moment. I've got such a lot on and the puppies will be ready to go to new homes just before Christmastime. It all seems too much.”

I somehow felt like a blow had been landed to an ambition I didn't yet have.

“I'm sorry to disappoint you,” Marion said as she put the phone down.

Donna, who had been playing with Freddy and his pink unicorn, suddenly gave a cry. “Meg!”

A drop of blood had fallen from Freddy and splashed red on the wooden floor. I rushed over to have a proper look. The St. Bernard's bite, which I'd presumed was just a grab, had cut deep into his chest. Freddy's mane of fur had soaked the blood up and most hadn't reached the surface, so I hadn't noticed. I felt sick; how could I have not seen how injured he was? How could I have called him back across the field when he must have been terrified, and then made him play with other dogs when he must have been in pain? Our poor little boy. How could I think about another puppy when I should have been paying attention to him?

I phoned Jamie to ask his advice and to get permission to take Freddy to the vet's, and he said that if I bathed Freddy's wound with salt water he should be fine. Ian helped me bathe the wound over the next few days, but Freddy's long fur, which just soaked the water up, made the job difficult and soon it was looking worse. Jamie wasn't answering his phone, so I took Freddy to the vet anyway.

Sally the vet took Freddy away and shaved his chest. When she came back, I could see the large bite mark; some of the deeper indentations had become infected.

“Oh, Freddy,” I said, feeling very guilty.

“It's a nasty bite,” said Sally. I wondered if it could have been an accident from overenthusiastic playing, but Sally shook her head. It was definitely deliberate. The first dog may even have shepherded Freddy toward the second so it could attack.

Freddy was put on a course of antibiotics and the wound began to heal cleanly. Ian bought Freddy the largest chew I'd ever seen—longer than Freddy himself—as a get-well present. It made us laugh as it looked like a dinosaur bone next to our lanky little pup, and he never managed to finish it.

One of the dog walkers down by the river gave me a book with some recipes for convalescent dogs, and I dutifully made them for Freddy, who proceeded to wolf them down. His injury didn't seem to dampen his appetite at all.

After a few weeks, all that remained to show for the incident was a short patch of chest fur; after a little more time, that grew back too.

Fully trained Helper Dogs do sometimes have to deal with attacks, and they're usually so devoted to their owners that they put their own safety second. One experienced older dog, Arthur, had been given extra sight training, as his owner, Stan, was blind as well as physically disabled and Arthur had been having a free play on a playing field when he was attacked by two other dogs. Although horribly injured and bloody from the mauling, Arthur had behaved heroically, going straight to his owner's side when called, so that Stan had been unaware that anything had happened until Arthur had safely led him all the way home.

Stan's wife, Fiona, had been horrified when she opened the door, she'd told me during a visit to our local Helper Dogs satellite center.

“I couldn't believe it. I felt sick. Arthur collapsed in the hallway, covered in blood.”

“He lasted just long enough to see me home,” Stan said, with tears streaming down his face. “Didn't you, boy?”

Stan patted Arthur, all healed, who looked at him adoringly.

“He put on three kilos during his convalescing with all the meals I made him,” Fiona said.

 

Before we could get going at the private fertility clinic, I had to get my blood test results from my own doctor. I went full of optimism, but Dr. Boston gently told me that the results weren't just bad, they were awful.

“It's all right, don't cry,” she said as a tear slipped down my face.

My hormone levels were much too high—I had very little chance of successful ovulation. If I didn't ovulate, then it was impossible to get pregnant. My FSH was now 18.7—it had rocketed up from last time, and my LH had gone up too.

I could hardly speak.

“But it's just—just we're so happy . . . A baby would be . . .”

The doctor handed me some tissues and put her hand over mine.

“I think you should consider donor eggs,” she said softly. “Otherwise you may have more heartache and miscarriages because your eggs—if you ovulate at all—won't be good anyway.”

I made it home but then e-mailed Ian at work, asking him to get a taxi that night rather than relying on me to pick him up. I didn't think I was up to driving. I then had a long conversation on instant messenger with Susan, who had returned to Ecuador with her family, to tell her what had happened. If anyone knew what I was going through, it was Susan. She was more than sympathetic. She'd experienced it all before.

“Years and years of tests and investigations. Tiny glimmers of hopes. Only to have them dashed.”

I didn't want that. I wanted to have our baby naturally and easily—the way it should be.

“But did you ever consider having donor eggs?” I messaged.

“We tried donor eggs—that didn't work either.”

It was getting late, and I had to give Freddy his food, put our own dinner on and a hundred other little household tasks that I simply couldn't face, so I had to sign off. Susan's final message gave me hope: she said that it didn't matter how you ended up with a child, the child was the important thing. “You're right: it's having someone to love,” I messaged back, and shut the computer down.

The phone rang almost immediately. It was Marion. “I've changed my mind and am going to breed from Sugar.”

“Oh. Oh, that's great,” I said.

 

The next day Freddy went to visit Jo and Ian drove us to the fertility clinic. On the way, we talked Dr. Boston's advice over, and Ian said he would rather go for fostering or adoption than donor eggs. I was amazed. The idea of fostering and adoption appealed to me very much, but Ian had always avoided talking about it. I was concerned about him.

“What about if social services come and start digging around?” I said. If he could barely share parts of his childhood with me—or even himself—I feared for his reaction when outsiders asked him about it, and I could understand why they had a right to know their potential carers' backgrounds.

“I could tell them I was placed into foster care a few times,” he said, making light of it. “It might even get us a few more brownie points in the interview.” He smiled, but it turned quickly sad around the edges. He sighed. “To be honest, I can't remember anything about it, even though I did keep in touch with one of my foster parents until she died.”

However much I tried to talk to him about donor eggs, he seemed not to want to consider it.

“It wouldn't be our baby,” he said. “And I want it to be our baby with your eggs—not some woman's we don't even know.”

I didn't agree with him, but he was adamant.

I crossed my fingers as we pulled into the IVF clinic car park, hoping that something would go right for us for a change.

 

The doctor at the clinic introduced himself as Peter Bromovich. He had a streak of mud on the shin of his trousers, food marks on his waistcoat, and a thick, unkempt beard, but he looked sympathetic and welcoming. I mentioned my bad results, and he said they may have been affected by the Clomid.

“What are you hoping to get out of the clinic?” he asked.

“I'd just like to know how good my eggs are,” I replied, “to know if there's any chance of us ever having a baby of our own.”

“We'll scan you on day five of your next cycle,” he said, “but you must stop taking the Clomid now.” Perhaps he saw the hope in my eye.

“I must be honest with you, the chances of a woman your age becoming pregnant using her own eggs is very slim—about one percent.”

One in every hundred—that didn't sound too bad to me. Definitely worth a try.

“And that is pregnancy, not a live birth, which is obviously much lower. But if you opt for donor eggs, we could expect up to a thirty-five to forty percent success rate,” he continued.

“I've no doubt there's one perfectly healthy egg inside you,” he said. “And one day—in thirty years or so—we'll have something that will be able to extract that perfect egg, but at the moment we don't have the technology. Even if on the scan you produce a dozen or so eggs, which I think is unlikely, there's no guarantee that the eggs are good enough to produce a healthy baby.”

Ian asked about the statistics again. He looked really worried.