O chionn dà bhliadhna, bha mi aineolach. Bha mi ro dheònach na h-abairtean is sgeulachdan mu dheidhinn coin a chreidsinn: nach fhaigheadh tu caraid nas dìlse na cù; gun dèanadh iad diofar mòr air do bheatha.
Aig an àm sin, air diofar adhbharan, bha mi gu math ìosal. Ged a bha mi airson bruidhinn ri cuideigin mu dheidhinn, cha robh mi a-riamh math air còmhraidhean fosgailte, domhainn a chumail mu na faireachdainnean agam.
Abair gun cuirinn feum air caraid dìleas a nì mo bheatha nas fheàrr, smaoinich mi, is mi fo bhuaidh margaidheachd nan con. Bha mi dìreach air Flush le Virginia Woolf a leughadh – nobhail air leth stèidhichte air eachdraidh-beatha cù spaniel aig Elizabeth Barrett-Browning. Bha Flush dìleas, modhail agus làn co-fhaireachdainn, mothachail den triom anns an robh a charaid, Ealasaid. Nì sin a’ chùis, thuirt mi rium fhìn.
Cha robh mi idir an dùil gum b’ ann aineolach a bha mi. Leugh mi a h-uile leabhar is artaigil air an d’ fhuair mi lorg – bha fios agam mar a dh’aithnichinn tuathanas chuileanan, agus bha làn fhios agam nach biodh e idir furasta dèiligeadh ri cuilean. Bhithinn ag èirigh tron oidhche is a’ seasamh sa ghàrradh, biodh iad feumach air tòrr thrèanadh is eacarsaich, bhithinn-sa feumach air tòrr fhoighidinn. B’ fhiach e, shaoil mi, is mi dòchasach gun dèanadh e diofar dhomh.
Thog sinn Percy bho theaghlach laghach anns na Crìochan aig àm na Càisge. Spaniel beag, dubh, cruinn, cho eireachdail ’s a chunnaic thu a-riamh. Nuair a fhuair sinn dhachaigh, chluich sinn le bàl fad còig mionaidean agus thuit e na chadal air mo ghlùin. Seo sinn, smaoinich mi – cho luath ’s a gheibh sinn seachad air a’ chiad sia mìosan, ’s dòcha, bidh sinn taghta.
Nach mi a bha ceàrr. ’S e an rud as cudromaiche a dh’ionnsaich mi tron a’ bhliadhna ud nach e cù a th’ ann an cuilean. ’S e creutair gu tur eadar-dhealaichte a th’ ann an cuilean, coltach ri Gremlin. Coltas air aodann molach nach leaghadh an t-ìm na bheul, ged is e uilebheist beag a th’ ann fhad ’s a tha e na dhùisg. Bidh cuid a’ gabhail cearban na tìre orra, leis gu bheil iad dualtach a bhith gad bhìdeadh a h-uile turas a tha iad air bhioran no air bhoil (fad na tìde) no cho luath ’s a thòiseachas tu air bruidhinn ri cuideigin air a’ fòn no ann an coinneamh air-loidhne. Bha agam ri geansaidh tiugh a chur orm a h-uile latha, fiù ’s ann am meadhan an t-samhraidh, gus mo ghàirdeanan a dhìon bho fhiaclan geura mo ‘charaid’.
Cha robh pìos àirneis, bròg, stocainn, cluasag, lus no pìos pàipeir san taigh sàbhailte. Nochd tuill mhòra sa ghàrradh, agus an uair sin nochd lorgan-spòige eabarach sa chidsin. Bhiodh an cearban ag èirigh a h-uile oidhche mu dhà no trì uairean, deiseil is deònach geamannan a chluich. Bha mi den bheachd gun robh mi a’ faireachdainn dona mus d’ fhuair mi Percy, ach b’ ann na bu mhiosa is na bu mhiosa a dh’fhàs mi. Cha b’ urrainn dhomh cadal tron oidhche; cha b’ urrainn dhuinn fhàgail san taigh leis fhèin air eagal ’s nach biodh sòfa air fhàgail nuair a thilleadh sinn; cha b’ urrainn dhuinn a dhol air saor-làithean no air splaoid, leis nach robh esan deònach suidhe sa chàr.
Feumaidh gu bheil mi a’ dèanamh rudeigin ceàrr, smaoinich mi, tha e coltach gu bheil daoine eile aig a bheil cuileanan riaraichte gu leòr leotha. Am bi iadsan a’ caoineadh cha mhòr a h-uile latha? Bha mi cinnteach às nach b’ ann coltach ri Percy a bha a h-uile cuilean – cha bhiodh coin cho pailt nan robh a h-uile duine a’ fulang san dòigh seo.
Thàinig latha dorcha, fliuch san Fhaoilleach, nuair nach b’ urrainn dhomh seasamh ris tuilleadh. Sgrìobh mi dreachd de phost-dealain chun a’ bhoireannaich on d’ fhuair mi Percy, ag innse dhi nach biodh e comasach dhuinn a chumail agus a’ faighneachd oirre am biodh i deònach a ghabhail air ais. Gu fortanach, cha do chuir mi air falbh e.
Às dèidh a’ chiad cho-là-breith aige, thòisich Percy a’ fàs na bu shocaire is na bu mhodhaile... gu grad. Sguir e a bhìdeadh ar làmhan is ar casan, thòisich e a’ cadal tron oidhche agus thàinig e a-steach air mu dheireadh thall gun robh aige ri laighe san leabaidh aige fhad ’s a bha mi ag obair.
Airson a’ chiad uair, bha e a’ còrdadh rium gun robh cù agam. Rachamaid dhan a’ phàirc a h-uile feasgar, agus fhuair mi sìth bhon a bhith a’ spaidsearachd fo na craobhan agus ag èisteachd ri na h-eòin is borbhan an t-sruthain, fhad ’s a bha esan a’ ruith an dèidh fheòragan. Leis gun robh e deònach suidhe gu socair anns a’ chàr, dh’fhaodamaid a dhol dhan tràigh, air chuairt san dùthaich agus fiù ’s air saor-làithean còmhla ris. Cha bhithinn air post-d a sgrìobhadh gu duine sam bith airson cuidhteas fhaighinn dheth. Bha e na phàirt den teaghlach: cù càirdeil, dìleas, dòigheil agus gaolach an àite cearban na tìre.
Às dèidh dà bhliadhna, tha mi air gabhail ris nach eil ùidh sam bith aige anns na sgeulachdan no beachdan agam, ged a leigeas e air gu bheil e ag èisteachd rium ma bheir mi briosgaid dha. A dh’aindeoin sin, chan urrainn dhomh ach faireachdainn nas fhèarr nuair a chuireas mi seachad uair a thìde gach madainn agus gach feasgar ann am pàirc no ann an coille, a’ coimhead air cù tuainealach a’ ruith ann an cearcallan às dèidh starragan.
Ged a bha mi an dòchas ri Flush, b’ e Percy a fhuair mi, agus abair gu bheil e air mo bheatha a dhèanamh nas fheàrr. ’S dòcha nach eil e modhail, socair no sàmhach, ach chanainn ’s gu bheil e nas spòrsaile is nas èibhinne na Flush bochd. Airidh air nobhail mu a bheatha-san gun teagamh, nan robh foighidinn gu leòr agus plugaichean-cluaise aig an sgrìobhadair.
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Hope or Ignorance?
Two years ago, I was ignorant. I was more than willing to believe all the popular sayings and stories about how a dog is a man’s (and woman’s) best friend, about how they would improve your life.
At the time I was feeling fairly down for various reasons. I’d have liked to talk to somebody about it, but have never been good at speaking openly about my feelings. I could definitely use a loyal friend who would improve my life, I thought, under the spell of all the canine marketing. I had just read Flush by Virginia Woolf, a brilliant novella imaging the life of Elizabeth Barrett-Browning’s spaniel. Flush was well-behaved, loyal and hugely empathetic: always aware of his beloved friend Elizabeth’s moods. That’ll do, I thought.
I didn’t imagine for a minute that I was ignorant. I read every book and article I could find – I knew how to avoid puppy farms, and was well aware that owning a puppy would not be easy. I knew that I’d be up during the night standing in the garden, that they’d need lots of training and exercise and that I’d need endless patience. It’ll be worth it, I told myself, hoping fervently that it would make a difference.
We collected Percy from a kind family in the Borders just before Easter. A small, chubby black spaniel, as cute as you’d imagine. When we got home, we played with a ball for five minutes before he fell asleep on my knee. Here we go, I thought, as soon as we get through the first six months or so everything will be perfect.
I’ve never been so wrong. The most important thing I learnt during that year was that a puppy is not a dog. A puppy is an entirely different creature, like a Gremlin. He might look like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth, but he’s a little monster the whole time he’s awake. Some people refer to them as land sharks thanks to their tendency to bite you whenever they’re excited or frenzied (which is all the time), or whenever you dare to speak to someone on the phone or in an online meeting. I had to wear a thick jumper, even on the hottest summer days, to protect my arms from my so-called friend’s sharp teeth.
No piece of furniture, shoe, sock, cushion, plant or piece of paper in the house was safe. Large holes appeared in the garden, swiftly followed by a trail of muddy paw-prints through the kitchen. The shark woke up every night at around two or three o’clock in the morning, ready for more games.
I had thought I felt bad before I got Percy, but gradually got worse and worse during that year. I couldn’t get a full night’s sleep, we couldn’t leave him in the house by himself in case we returned to a destroyed sofa, we couldn’t go on holiday or even for a day out at the weekend as he wouldn’t sit still in the car.
I was sure I must be doing something wrong. Other puppy owners I met seemed to be getting on ok – I wondered if they were also secretly crying most days? I assumed that Percy must be different from other puppies, reasoning that there wouldn’t be such an abundance of dogs if all owners were suffering as much as I was.
I finally reached breaking point on a wet, dark day in January. I wrote a draft email to Percy’s breeder, telling her that I couldn’t keep him. Would she be interested in taking him back? Thankfully, I didn’t hit send.
After his first birthday, Percy gradually began to calm down and remember how to behave. He stopped biting every hand and leg in sight, started sleeping through the night and finally understood that he was meant to lie quietly in his bed while I was working.
For the first time, I enjoyed having a dog. We would go to the park every evening, where I could stroll peacefully under the trees, listening to the birds and the burbling stream while he chased after squirrels. He got used to sitting in the car, meaning that we could go to the beach, for walks in the countryside and even take him on holiday. I wouldn’t have dreamed of emailing anyone to ask them to take him off my hands. He was finally part of the family: a friendly, loyal, laid-back, affectionate dog instead of a land shark.
After two years, I’ve accepted that he has no interest in my stories or opinions, although he’ll pretend to care as long as I give him a biscuit. In spite of that, I can’t help but feel better after spending an hour every morning and evening walking through a park or wood, watching a giddy dog run in circles after a crow.
I may have been hoping for Flush, but I got Percy and he has certainly changed my life for the better. He might not be so well-behaved, calm or quiet, but I’m sure he’s more entertaining than poor Flush. Definitely worthy of a novel about his own life, as long as the writer had a pair of ear-plugs and the patience of a saint.