The Puppy That Came for Christmas (9 page)

“Emma's weed on the bed!” I shouted.

Ian raced up the stairs. Our accommodation might have been dog friendly, but that didn't mean they wanted dogs on the beds and it certainly didn't mean they wanted puppies having accidents on them. It was barely light outside, but the cockerels were getting more persistent.

“Quick!” Ian said, leaping around the bed with his dressing gown flapping. We had stripped the sheets, washed the quilt and cover in the laundry room and festooned the insides of our tiny cottage with large sheets hung up to dry before anyone else was up.

 

Emma loved the seaside even more than we'd hoped she would. The Suffolk waves were gentle, and once she'd got over the idea of a limitless expanse of water, she liked running in and out of them, snapping at them and then rolling in the sand. It was the sand she liked best; it awoke within her an urge to dig, dig, dig, down and down, until she'd created a hole bigger than herself—which she then dived into and in which she became half buried when, in trying to get out, one of the walls caved in under her scrabbling paws.

A minute later, barely recovered, she spotted a man about to go for a paddle, sitting on his towel having removed his shoes. She yelped and ran over and started attempting to pull his socks off for him.

“What's she doing?” he laughed (fortunately he wasn't dog-phobic). We told him about Helper Dogs. She'd been doing what she'd been taught to do but had forgotten that she was supposed to wait to be asked to do it! Bidding him and his socks goodbye, we retired from the beach to a café and thence back home, where Emma collapsed in a sandy little heap, exhausted once more, and we enjoyed another evening surrounded by cock-crows and the dark, flat Suffolk countryside.

Helper Dogs didn't just help their partners at work; I'd heard many stories about how they'd improved their quality of life by enabling their owners to go on holiday, sometimes for the first time. A very calm black Labrador I met called Annie had an eight-year-old partner, Paul, who had autism and didn't speak.

“We've had our first family holiday ever thanks to Annie,” said Leila, Paul's mother. “It would have been too stressful and too much for Paul to handle before. But she has such a calming influence on him. Plus, because of her special harness that's attached to Paul around his waist, I don't have to worry if Paul gets freaked out by something and tries to run off. Annie just sits down and Paul comes to a stop, and often sits down too!

“I thought Paul would be really freaked out by his first sight of the sea, but he wasn't—just kept staring at it. He didn't like the ice-cream van, though,” she said, laughing at the memory. “Also, having Annie with us with her assistance dog coat on means when Paul has a tantrum, when it all gets too much for him, people realize he isn't just being a naughty boy with a mum that's spoilt him! We were very lucky: Helper Dogs don't often train dogs to work with children like Paul—although there are some charities that specialize in it.”

 

Though my weekend with Emma and Ian was all too short, the break did us a world of good. Ian had had a few days away from the London commute, Emma had seen the sea for the first time and I'd barely thought about Clomid once. I came home refreshed and remembered that the £10,000 had cleared into my savings account.

The following week, I spent hours on the computer browsing the many Internet forums in which women described their experiences of trying to have children. I especially liked looking at the ones for older women who'd successfully become pregnant. Then I researched the private clinics within driving distance from us: some didn't offer IVF for women over forty; some only offered donor eggs. But there were two that looked right.

I explored all the possibilities the money gave us in my mind and began to come to some decisions. I e-mailed both clinics and asked to be sent more details.

Emma's head was deep inside the washing machine, and I loved it. I'd been cultivating this behavior, egging her on with praise and treats for days. First I'd used a favorite toy, placing it right on the edge of the machine, and showered her with love when she brought it back to me. Gradually I'd put it farther and farther inside, until she had her head completely within the dark echoey drum; her tail, which was sticking right out into the kitchen, was swishing merrily from side to side like a metronome, marking how happy she was.

It was one of the many skills that all Helper Dogs had to learn. For an able-bodied person, taking the washing out of the machine is simply a tiresome chore, but in a wheelchair or with limited mobility, it can be a struggle. Now, after only a couple of weeks' practice, Emma was cheerfully—and surprisingly delicately—pulling socks, pants and bras out with her mouth and dropping them into the washing basket, ready to be taken outside to be hung up to dry. It was a game to her, one she loved to play.

Learning how to take the pegs from the basket and give them to me, however, was all her own work. After the washing-machine drill, she followed me out into the garden and, in an excess of play-fever, simply copied what I was doing. Soon, I'd say, “Peg, Emma,” and she'd bring me a peg over; and when I was unpegging the washing, she could take the pegs gently from my hand and drop them back into the basket too. For her, it was a fun, exciting game, well rewarded with treats and love. Someday, the washing-machine game and the peg game would make somebody's life a whole lot easier. She was really picking up new skills quickly now; most of all, she was enjoying it.

Other things we concentrated on were taking off a person's shoes and socks, picking up a dropped walking stick and finding the phone—what's a few tooth marks on a phone if it means your dog can bring it to you when you've had a nasty fall and need help? She was also very good at finding a set of door keys to which I'd attached a cuddly toy keyring. “Find the keys,” I'd say, and off she'd go, hunting around the room. Sometimes, I'd hide them in a shoe or under a cushion so she really had to look for them. Sometimes I even buried them inside a pile of her toys. She never gave up until she found them and she always had a treat and tons of happy praise when she brought them over. I was certain that a huge smile spread over her doggy face every time.

Quite aside from the specialized Helper Dogs work, Emma was coming on in leaps and bounds in her obedience training. All Helper Dogs had to complete Kennel Club training, too, as it was equally as important to their prospective partners that they could do simple things such as stay and sit on command as it was that they'd perform the more complicated tasks. Jamie had decided that it was time for Emma and Eddie to go for their first Kennel Club exam. Elvis hadn't yet quite grasped what was required of him and was going to wait until later when his behavior was less erratic.

Ted, a man in his thirties with cerebral palsy, told me how his working day had changed after his Helper Dog, Callum, came to live with him. At first Ted had thought that Callum's most important skill was being as quiet and unobtrusive as possible; however, he soon found out that there were much bigger benefits than that.

“At work I never used to speak to anyone if I could help it and no one ever spoke to me. Some days I'd go through a whole day sitting at my computer without saying anything. Around me other people in the office would be chatting, but not me. I was the invisible man—there but not there. When I got Callum and took him to work, it was like people saw Ted the person for the first time. Everyone wanted to say hello to Callum and ask questions about him. Soon it took me ten minutes to get to my desk because everyone wanted to stop and say hello.

“Callum is really good and sits under my desk. He's not in the way at the office at all. Now, when it's lunch hour, a group of us from the office take Callum to the park so he can have a run around and sometimes we even go to the pub after work. I just have orange juice—don't want to be drunk in charge of a wheelchair!”

 

Knowing how important it was for Emma to be obedient didn't make me any more relaxed, and on the day of the exam, I struggled to control my nerves. I didn't want to affect her performance. Eight or ten other dogs—Helper Dogs and dogs from the normal obedience classes—lined up across the lawn, and one by one they were put through their paces. Emma walked smartly with her lead, not pulling or lagging behind, and returned straightaway when she was called. There remained one final test: she had to lie still in one place for a minute while I walked away. As I patted and praised her, she settled into the down position well. I commanded her to stay. She lay still, perfectly obedient, until the time was up, but as I came back to her, she sat up—and, by so doing, failed the test. It was such a shame that she'd fallen at the final hurdle, but she wasn't to know that she'd done anything wrong, so I gave her a piece of cheese as a reward anyway. She'd have a chance to retake it in a month's time. Eddie passed without a problem.

 

Not all dogs are as well behaved, as we found out soon after on a walk on the riverbank. Emma was now four months old, and although she was growing fast, people recognized her all the time as the puppy in the newspaper column. She took to celebrity well and always welcomed being stroked. I was happy to let people fuss her: it filled me with pride and it was also important that Helper Dogs become used to dealing with the public in all kinds of situations. Passersby and dog walkers always made kind remarks—“It's the best bit in the paper. I always turn to your column first,” or “That time she chewed up the toilet rolls . . . But it looks like butter wouldn't melt!”

It made me so happy that people could see how special and lovable she was.

Emma usually got on as swimmingly with dogs as she did with people, but as I was to learn, there are always exceptions. In the weak March sunshine that morning, we met an elderly man and his wife walking a large greyhound. He was a rescue dog, thin and jumpy, and he'd only been with them for a few weeks. While his wife held on to the greyhound, the man stiffly bent down and made a big fuss of Emma. The greyhound looked unhappy enough at this, but when his owner reached into his pocket and gave Emma a biscuit, the larger dog rushed over and bit her. Emma squeaked in shock and pain while the woman pulled the vexed greyhound away.

“She's OK, she's OK,” the man said. “It didn't break the skin.”

“He was probably just jealous,” explained his wife. I could see how a celebrity puppy grabbing all of his owners' attention could make a rescue dog insecure and want to bite, but it didn't really make things any better. It was the first time I'd had to deal with this kind of situation, and I, too, was in shock. Still, I reasoned, Emma didn't seem to be hurt, so I bade them a frosty goodbye and carried on with our walk.

 

Emma slept as usual when we got back but woke up crying and limping. In a panic, I phoned Jamie, but there was no answer. The organization paid the bills, so we were meant to check with the Helper Dogs bosses before we went to the vet's. But my puppy was hurt, and I wasn't in any mood to hang about. I took her anyway. By the time we got there, she had staged a marvelous recovery and wasn't crying or limping. She licked the vet's face as he tried to examine her. The vet, the receptionist and the whole waiting room were smitten.

“I don't think there's much wrong with this little girl,” he said, laughing. “She might have woken up and remembered what had happened. It probably gave her a scare more than anything.”

As any mother would be, I was still worried.

“I'll give her an analgesic if it'll make you feel happier.”

It certainly did. I also got him to check her heart and was over the moon when he said Emma's heart murmur had disappeared of its own accord.

If only medical problems in my life were so easily resolved. All the tests and (seemingly) inevitable disappointments were getting me down almost as much as being childless. In despair, I confided in Lorrie, a new Helper Dogs volunteer, who was a retired midwife. Lorrie had worked with my specialist, Mrs. Hughes, in the past, and although Lorrie said she had the greatest professional respect for her, she frowned upon hearing that my next appointment was in six months' time. She quickly became as determined as I was that I get pregnant as soon as possible.

“Goodness gracious, woman, you can't wait that long! Write the lady a letter,” she said. “If you send a letter, then she'll be obliged to answer you in writing.”

I took her advice and wrote, reminding Mrs. Hughes of my test results (poor), my age (advancing) and her decision (Clomid for a year).

I licked and stamped the envelope, and put it in the post feeling a little as if I'd stoppered up all my hopes and fears and tossed them out to sea in a bottle, with little prospect of ever hearing back. Nevertheless, even having put everything down in writing seemed to have lightened the load a little, and I was delighted when a few weeks later I received a reply from Mrs. Hughes speaking positively of the Billingsford clinic. She also took the step of contacting them for me, as well as writing a letter to my local practice, explaining my situation.

My regular doctor had left and I was given a new GP, a registrar called Amy Boston. Her sympathetic manner put me at ease right away when we met, and I opened my heart to her. Dr. Boston reiterated that the NHS did not pay for IVF for women of my age, simply because the results were usually very poor. However, if I decided to go ahead, she would recommend the Billingsford clinic and would forward all my clinical notes to them. Before leaving, I asked her if I could have two blood tests: for FSH (a hormone that encourages eggs to grow) and for LH (one of the most important hormones involved in pregnancy). My last FSH test had been in February, when I'd had a reading of 11.6. This was the same as the previous November, and the range of normal readings went up to 12—so I'd just squeaked inside. Dr. Boston wasn't too worried about this. She printed out a form for me to take to the hospital for my blood test.