The Puppy That Came for Christmas (26 page)

“It's OK, Traffy, it's OK,” I said, giving her a cuddle.

She wasn't very keen on cows from then on and would bark and bark and bark at the sight of them, whether it was the real thing or representations of them—like a life-sized sculpture outside a pottery we visited or even cow-shaped playthings on springs in a children's playground.

 

Perhaps we'd become inveterate dog trainers, but we started to teach Traffy simple Helper Dog tasks. First, Ian taught her to pull the light cord when it was time to go to sleep, then I started getting her to search for my keys. Her training wasn't as strict or as fast as Helper Dogs would have demanded, and for every one thing we trained her to do, we also allowed her an equal luxury. As soon as Ian got up in the morning, for example, Traffy would take his warm spot and fall fast asleep, often snoring. It became a routine: Traffy would wake us up in the morning, our own furry alarm clock, Ian would get out of bed and she'd get into it.

Freddy, meanwhile, was having mixed fortunes in his advanced training.

“I just don't think they know what to do with him,” Jamie said, reporting back to us about a visit to Head Office during which he'd asked after Freddy.

“Oh, there he is now.” One of the trainers had pointed out of the window. Freddy was outside, waiting at the boot of a hatchback. Two elderly ladies tottered up and opened the boot; Freddy placed his front paws on the edge, then one old lady took his back right leg, the other his back left one, and together, wobbling slightly under the weight, they lifted him into the car.

Freddy hadn't been able to stay at HQ's on-site kennels: he'd become hyperactive and barked all night, upsetting the other dogs, so Helper Dogs had arranged for him to stay with two elderly ladies who lived nearby. Unfortunately for them, he found them complete pushovers and very quickly had them doing everything for him

“I couldn't believe it,” Jamie said. “He could have jumped into that car as easy as pie, but oh no, he had to make these poor old women lift him. Two of them! I don't know what's going to happen, I really don't. I can't imagine him having any incentive to pass when he can live the life of a spoiled king.”

I smiled. I liked the idea of Freddy being spoiled.

“They also say that he understands every command, but he won't do it unless he's asked in a sweet, high tone of voice, which is really pissing the advanced trainers off,” continued Jamie. “They say they have to mimic you before he does anything at all.”

That made me smile even more.

 

A few weeks later, however, we heard that Freddy had been working temporarily with a woman with multiple sclerosis. Beverly had an extreme form of the condition, which had struck very fast and left her in a wheelchair with almost no hand movement and very little speech. She was very depressed and, when she went to Head Office for assessment, hardly lifted her head or made eye contact with anyone. The trainers weren't sure if they'd be able to place any dog with her at all, but then Freddy went over to her and nudged at her hand. At first she didn't respond, but Freddy was persistent. He wasn't going to give up on her even if she'd just about given up on herself.

The trainers decided to let Freddy and Beverly work a little together. Everybody was amazed that when Beverly gave Freddy a command he rushed to do whatever she asked immediately, even though her speech was so distorted as to be unrecognizable, and barely louder than a whisper.

“I don't believe it,” the trainer who'd done the most work with Freddy told Beverly. “He's doing more for you than he ever does for me.”

Beverly smiled faintly.

During the training week Freddy and Beverly went from strength to strength. Freddy hardly left her side and began to take on some of the tasks her carer previously performed. Because he was such a large dog, he was able to help her out of bed and into her wheelchair by pulling back the covers and tugging on a short rope she was holding to help her upright. Then he'd nudge her legs over the side of the bed and would have lifted her into her chair if he'd been able, but that was too much even for him; he could, however, run and find her slippers, place them on her chair and then pull a rug over her to keep her warm.

At the end of the assessment period Freddy went home with Beverly. The two old ladies cried as they waved their little prince off to the life of servitude he'd chosen.

On the e-mail after-care bulletin I read about how Freddy and Beverly were getting on: “Freddy goes into the adjacent garage to empty the washing machine and tumble drier . . .”

“Hmm, not like you, Traffy,” I said to our little girl. It had been a bright morning and I'd been hanging some washing outside, but Traffy had decided to help it dry by running past the flapping sheets and tugging, as if they were a toy. She looked so funny that I couldn't tell her off with any weight behind my words, and even took a photo of her in mid-pull for her blog.

A month later there was more news: “Freddy now raises the alarm from other rooms in the house. He also brings in bread from the milkman . . . great job! Very careful and does not break the plastic wrapper.”

“That's not much like you either, is it?” I said to Traffy.

Traffy had just started to bring in the post and was always very excited when the postman came, but she sometimes stood on the letters so they weren't easy to pick up, or pulled at them with her teeth to try and get a hold, which, if you weren't quick, could mean shredded bills.

A week or so later, I was working in the office upstairs, and I heard her bark but ignored her as I was busy. All was quiet for a few minutes and then Traffy arrived at the office door with three untorn letters in her mouth.

“Good girl,” I said. “What a good girl you are.” I went to find her one of her current favorite chicken cake treats that I'd made that morning. Slowly but surely, she was learning.

It was almost April, and the Helper Dogs HQ lawn was scattered with crocuses, with daffodils pushing up at the edges. A few trees were struggling to bud in the unseasonably chilly breeze. We had been invited back to Hertfordshire for Freddy's graduation. It was a handsome affair. As he walked smartly into the mansion's grand hall with Beverly's husband, three grown-up daughters and son, Freddy looked like he'd lived with them his whole life. It was obvious they all doted on him.

Beverly's husband spoke for her when the family was called to the front, as Beverly didn't feel up to speaking to an audience.

“I work away from home a lot,” he said, “and until Freddy came to live with us I traveled in constant fear that something would happen to Beverly while I was away. A year ago, she fell from her wheelchair taking washing out of the machine and lay helpless on the concrete floor of the garage for hours until, by pure chance, the postman realized something was wrong and called an ambulance.” Tears slowly started to roll down his face. “She could have died, cold, alone and afraid, and I wouldn't have known a thing or been able to do anything about it. Now I know she has the best carer possible looking after her twenty-four hours a day.” He looked at Freddy and the dog returned his gaze. “He takes the washing out for her now— so that's never going to happen again—but I know that if she did fall out of her chair for any reason Freddy would get help. He'd get the phone to her or press one of the emergency buttons around the house. Now when I have to go away, I don't have the image of my wife lying on the ground with no one to help her. Now I know she's safe.”

Freddy rolled onto his side nonchalantly and looked like he was ready to take a nap. I remembered how, as a very little boy, we'd taken him to a barbecue and he'd fallen asleep in the middle of it all, oblivious to the people moving around him and stepping over him.

After the ceremony I gave Beverly the photographic diary I'd made of the time that he'd spent with us.

“He really did love his toys,” I told her.

Ian nudged me and I looked over to see Freddy very interested in a woman holding a trolley bag with a yellow stuffed toy dog peeking out of the top. As she walked past, Freddy stood up and padded after her. Then, when she stopped to talk to someone, Freddy nosed his way into the bag, which was just the right height, pulled the toy out and then returned to Beverly's side with it in his jaws.

Ian and I smiled at each other. We were glad he hadn't lost all of his puppyish traits. I told the trolley woman what he'd done.

“Oh, let him keep it—it can be a late Christmas present to him.”

Beverly's husband nodded at Freddy and said: “He's our late Christmas present, the best present we could ever have. He makes our lives better in a million ways every day.”

Ian squeezed my hand. We were so incredibly proud of Freddy and of our small part in his journey to become a Helper Dog. Our little boy all grown up and making such a difference.

Traffy, now six months old, more cream-colored than Freddy and more curly coated than Emma, had come to the ceremony with us and was basking in the glory of being a bit of a Helper Dogs star. Her TV appearance had pulled in several new puppy parent volunteers in our area, so she was very popular with the Helper Dogs hierarchy, and with Jamie in particular. As I was taking her to Frank's obedience classes and was close friends with so many connected with the center, everybody was aware of how clever and obedient she was. She loved all the attention at the ceremony and made a special effort to sit in her cutest “I'm a good girl” manner, straight and tall and gazing up at me.

She was doing her “good girl” sit when Angela, the head trainer at Helper Dogs, asked if I might be interested in selling Traffy to Helper Dogs. I told her I wouldn't sell Traffy for a million pounds. She was almost at the age at which, had she been a Helper Dog, she would have been taken away from us, and I was so glad she wasn't going anywhere.

“Maybe she could become a demonstration dog instead,” suggested Jamie, slightly taken aback by the ferocity of my reply. Now that was a different kettle of fish entirely. A demonstration dog: the public face of the charity promoting its good work and raising much-needed funds. I'd be happy, working for Helper Dogs and spending time with my friends; Traffy would be happy, as it was all just a big game to her anyway.

“Where do I sign up?” I said.

 

Two weeks down the line, Traffy was wearing her “Helper Dog in Training” jacket (Jamie hadn't got any with “Demo Dog in Training” written on them yet) and we were strapping her into the car to take her to her first school visit, accompanying Jamie to one of the many demonstrations and talks he regularly gave; this particular one was at a school for children with special needs, which each year selected a charity to support. This year it was Helper Dogs' turn.

“You're going to see lots of children today,” I told Traffy. She was busy shaking a snake toy.