Dear Oscar the Wonder Dog

I love you with all my heart.  But you absolutely put the heart across me today.
It’s been a rough week, by any standards.  At the beginning of last week I collapsed under the worst kind of vomiting bug.  So bad, in fact, that I had to have a vicious injection in my bottom just to stop the puking. 

I suggested, of course, that maybe the doctor would like to put the needle in my arm, but he refused, on the basis that there’s more muscle in my bottom than in my arm.  He could be right, I suppose. But if he is, my arm is the only thing in the world with less muscle than my bottom.

Anyway, the shot stopped the vomiting eventually, but the suddenness and veracity of the puking was such that the part of my inner ear that controls nausea went bonkers.  When I woke up on Thursday morning, I was as deaf as a post.  When my hearing finally returned, I had vertigo.  Which is an ongoing problem.  Apparently, it could last for six weeks.  Lovely.

But all that faded into insignificance compared to today’s drama.

We all know that it was supposed to be stormy today.  I won’t pretend to have been terribly worried.  We’ve had storms before.  Needless to say, I’d prefer not to put you out in the garden when we go to work on bad days, but needs must. 
If we don’t go to work all four of us will have to live in your kennel.

Sometime after half past four this evening, I got a phone call from a very nice woman who lives next door to us.

The news wasn’t good.  The ridiculous winds had blown the fence panels out of their places all along our back gardens.  The panels, needless to say, are destroyed and must now be replaced.  But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Our other dog, your brother (yes, I know, you’re not blood related, but adopted children are considered siblings, so why not adopted dogs?) Marley had been found trotting around the neighbour’s garden.  And when he was called to heel, he had the wit to answer the call.  They say border collies are the most intelligent dogs.

 

Marley was safe,  and was being cared for by another neighbour, until we got home.  But you had disappeared.

My beloved, disabled, wild-at-heart little stray.  My heart nearly stopped.

You are the dog that I chose. 

Although I love Marley dearly, His Nibs chose him, and I know that Marley is more loyal to him than to me.  Marley adores His Nibs, and follows him everywhere, tripping my husband up at least once a day.

You, on the other hand, were the one who captured my affection at first sight.  We didn’t get you from a rescue centre.  I got you from the pound, on your fifth day of captivity, the day you were due to be put down.

When I brought you home, and you turned out to have a life threatening illness, I was the one who insisted that we ignore the fact that you’re a mongrel from the pound, and keep paying to make sure you weren’t in pain, and could be cured if possible.

And I was with you the night you were hit by that car.  The one that caused you to lose your front leg, and hop around ever since, a tripod where once you were a quadruped.  You broke my heart, with your yelping and crying, and struggling to master the stairs again.

You were the one that finally inspired me to write a book.  Just last Sunday, I finished my first draft and printed off the whole thing, ready to start my first re-write.

The main theme of the book is taken from the look I sometimes see in your eye.  You see, I know that dogs can’t talk, but I believe that they have strong personalities.

And I know that you’re an  independent soul.  I know that you think you’re above the dog food we feed you, and that we should be feeding you the chicken, sausages, and other things we eat.  I know that you think you shouldn’t have to sleep in your little blue bed, but that you belong on our bed.

Not going to happen, my friend.  Not until you get a job and start paying your share of the mortgage.

But the drive home today, with diversions and trees and debris flying around the road, seemed to take forever.

I had visions of you out on the road.  Not a life skill you possess, as we know.  The last time you were on the road on your own you ended up losing a limb.
Or maybe you were running with another escaped dog, in lamb season, a hopping target for an angry farmer.
Or maybe you were just wandering around, getting into fights with bigger, stronger, able bodied dogs.
Poor His Nibs was as bad as I was, if not worse.  I don’t think we exchanged two sentences, all the way home.

The kindly neighbour who was taking care of Marley came out to greet us when we got home.            I don’t think you or he will ever know the favour he did us when he told us that he had found you.

I’ll admit it.  There was tears.  And His Nibs wasn’t much better.

Isn’t it great to have good neighbours? 

And good little dogs who know when to come home, to warmth and comfort and food and safety, instead of following their nose out into the wide blue yonder.

Now.  There’s no fence panels in the back garden anymore.  And I can’t go through another evening like this evening.
And so I’m taking a huge chance.  I’m going to let the two of you stay in the house for the next two days, while we're in work, until His Nibs has a chance to complete repairs on Saturday.  We've never left you in the house before.  But I was sick last week, I can't take holidays from work this week.
I know that there will be weeing, and I’m prepared for that, to some extent.  It’s not ideal, but you have to be kept safe, the pair of you.

But I’m begging you.  Please try to keep indoor pooing to an absolute minimum.  And for God’s sake don’t eat the furniture.  Or knock over the television.  Don’t get fed up in the house and start fighting.  Don’t wreck anything.  Just be good and nice and well behaved.  We already have to buy new fencing, we don’t have the money for any further repairs.

It’s great to have you both home.

Baby, Baby Not.

I was in a waiting room this week, when I heard a fascinating conversation between two complete strangers.
I have to assume that they were strangers, because they were asking each other questions that clearly suggested they hadn't spoken before.

So, these two women had just met for the first time.  They established the basics; names, what part of Dublin they were both from.  They quickly both said something derogatory about themselves, proving that they aren't big headed.  I think it's an Irish thing.

"Don't mind my hair, it's disgusting, I can't do a thing with it"

If these women had met in one of their houses, the conversation would have gone something like:

"Don't mind the state of this place, it's a complete kip, but I'm too lazy to clean it."

As far as I know, no Irish friendship can be nurtured until the parties have insulted themselves.

And so, in time, the conversation moved on to children.  One asked the other whether she had any, and the reply was that yes, this woman has two children.

The first woman then said 
"Oh God, that's really sad for you.  Your fun is over.  What did you have children for?"

The second woman looked a bit surprised and offended and said that she had wanted them, so she had them.  And she wasn't sorry.

"Christ, that was really selfish.  Just because you wanted them you just carried on and had them, even though the planet is completely over populated."

Then this over opinionated woman announced that it was  a great wonder that this woman had managed to hold onto her man through all this, given that the average couple has around 200 rows in the 365 days after their child is born.

The second woman said that she's glad she had her children, she's happy, and that it was her choice. 

There was a short but awkward silence, when the first woman suddenly turned to the second and suggested in a bright voice

"Maybe you could give them up for adoption, or have them fostered?"

And then the second woman finally took high offence and told the first to feck off for herself and mind her own business.

And in fairness, who could blame her?  This is a most offensive way to carry on.  The woman deserved a belt in the chops for herself.

Obviously I made this entire story up. 

Nobody in their right mind would ever say such a thing to a mother, would they?

And yet His Nibs and I are involved in the flip side of this conversation on a regular basis.

People meet us, and have brief conversations, and then say

"So, do you two have any children?"

And we say that no, we don't.  Because that's the truth.

And people tend to react in a limited number of ways.  Most people look sad and miserable and say something like

"Oh,  I don't know what to say.."
Which I don't mind, actually.  People don't know whether we've been trying and failed, or there was some other tragedy, or we didn't want them, or what the situation is.

But then they look at us quizzically and wait for an explanation. Bear in mind, these people are invariably strangers.  The ones who know us already know we don't have kids.  I don't see why we have to provide an explanation.

I know that they're waiting for a long and sad story of tests and procedures and stirrups.  There is no such story.

I know couples who've gone down the road of tests and procedures and stirrups.  I'm told that it's a really difficult, heart breaking thing to go through, and I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

But every single couple who don't have kids haven't gone through that particular hell.

So then they say it's a shame for us that we never had children. And we say that it's not sad at all, we never wanted them, we're happy as we are.

Some people just look bewildered and possibly slightly scandalised and move on with their lives.  Some, however, choose to keep up the conversation.

They ask us why we don't want children, and we say it was a conscious decision we made together and that we're happy with it.
Some beauties have then informed us that we must be unusually selfish not to want to share our lives with children.

Perpetuating this attitude, there was an article in the Daily Mail last week, the headline of which was 'Any woman who says she's happy to be childless is a liar or a fool'

I was enraged, obviously.  I'm not a liar.  Well, not about anything important.  I won't pretend I always tell His Nibs the truth about the cost of handbags, shoes etc.  But I don't lie about the big stuff.  And I don't like being called a fool either.

When people announce that we are selfish and self absorbed, I refuse to defend His Nibs and I.  We don't have to defend ourselves.  We have made a decision and stuck with it, and as my beloved  Dad would have said "Fuck 'em all".
I've never asked anyone to defend their choice to have kids, and so I won't defend my choice not to.  All I will say is that there's a great freedom to a life without naps or buggies or baby gates or babysitters.

I usually respond to these people with something  along the lines of
"Well, you can think we're selfish if you like, but we're not changing our minds"

Then I walk away and try to find someone more interesting and less annoying to talk to.

But I think it might be worst of all when people turn brightly to us and say that maybe it would be possible to adopt a child, or even foster.

That makes my teeth hurt.
I've just explained that we don't want children.  Why ask a question if you're not going to listen to the answer?
And if it's a matter that they don't believe us and think we secretly long for the aroma of wet nappies in our house, don't they think that maybe adoption or fostering could have dawned on us already?

Let's be clear.  I'm actually very fond of children.  We're lucky enough to have a number of them in our lives.  Nieces, nephews, friends kids,  and terrifyingly enough, the next one will be a great niece or nephew.

I love them, I think they're great.  I love the way small children think they are running the house, and indeed the world.

I love that the ones who don't like me make absolutely no effort to pretend that they do. 

And I can honestly say that I'm absolutely thrilled when each of them is born, I delight in the joy of the parents, and am fascinated by their miniscule features. I just don't want one for myself.

I have a small nephew, full of fun and divilment, who I frequently ask to give me his baby brother.  Just to annoy him, of course.
He always refuses.  And so I say "But I have no babies in my house to give me hugs".
I say this in a sad voice, and make what my sister would call my "Begging Face".

My little nephew has no patience with my perceived nonsense.  He raises his voice, and speaks slowly, as if dealing with an imbecile

"That's Normal!!"

Now, if only the eejits who think there's something wrong with His Nibs and I would take on some of his wisdom. 
He's five, by the way.