A Story About A Dog

There is nothing better than being in a room that has a dog in it. This is as much of a fact as that the sky is blue or that people who use the words ‘friyay’ and ‘holibobs’ are insufferable. A dog in any room makes that room 100% better. I think this is how most people feel about children but - to be honest - I’ve never had that part of the brain that would find happiness in there being a child about. The main issue with children being that children turn into people and people are, in general, confusing and disagreeable. But a dog is a good boy (regardless of gender) who then becomes a good old chap.

This is the story of a dog called Dallas, and how that dog would be one of the best things that ever happened to me.

During the midst of lockdown we, like most people at the time, spent our days searching dog rescue centres trying to find a new friend, or more importantly a new member of the family. This wasn’t a knee-jerk ‘we’re bored let’s get a dog’ thing. We had always known that we were going to get a dog, both coming from families that had had dogs growing up, it was an inevitability, and we thought that then was the perfect time to make it a reality. We tried every dog rescue centre we could find but quickly found ourselves ineligible for most of them. Firstly we lived in a flat with no direct garden, and this was a must for a lot of the charities. Then there were the unrealistic demands that some charities put forward before adoption: ‘applicants must have 16 bedrooms, 300 acres of land, 2 swimming pools and live with at least 7 other dogs’. The other being the sheer influx of people trying to do the same at the time. Whilst a few would be the source of reports after the pandemic that they got bored of their dog, or the dog simply couldn’t fit into their old lifestyles, most people just wanted to find their new best friend. Selfishly I found these people were getting in my way and making my task of finding a dog a lot harder than it should have been.

After six months of searching, we found a charity that came and did a house call, basically a check that we lived in a place suitable for a new furry friend and that - more importantly - we weren’t maniacs. The check went fine and the woman running it renewed our hope that a bundle of dog-shaped joy was just around the corner. Weeks went by without any calls or emails, and we began to believe that our dreams of dog ownership would have to wait until the world got back to normal and other people became too involved with their regular lives to want to adopt a rescue dog. Then we received an email saying they had some dogs available and that we could come and meet them if we wanted to. It is important at this juncture to point out that when filling out what kind of dog we wanted, we didn’t discriminate: all dogs are good dogs. However, we did say we would prefer not to have a Chihuahua or a Pug, as Chihuahuas tend to be small yappy type dogs that attack everyone and are constantly filled with the fury of Satan, and Pugs are genetically-mutated nightmare dogs that are only ever one sneeze away from death. The first dog they suggested couldn’t be near children, the second didn’t like other dogs… so we replied with our apologies. They responded with an image of a new dog they just had received: a small, panicked mess of a thing with huge eyes sat atop an apple shaped head and spindly legs jutting out from a potato body. His name was Dallas, and he was a Chug. A Chihuahua-Pug cross. For my wife, it was love at first sight, I however had my reservations. I didn’t really think of myself as ‘small dog person’. I’d grown up with a German Shepherd as the family dog (a glorious boy called Hendrix) and my wife’s family had always had Golden Retrievers. My parents current dog – a Westie – has done a brilliant job of bringing me to the dark side of smaller dogs, but he is still bigger than a Chihuahua or a Pug.

We rang the charity and asked for more information about Dallas. His story is a bit sad so prepare yourself if you need to. He had spent the first three years of his life confined to a single room. In this room was a battered old sofa and a dozen or so other small dogs all fighting for space. The owner would throw in food occasionally. They were never taken on walks. They had never been to the vets. They were starved of any attention. Why some people are allowed dogs I will never know but I do hope whoever owned this house and kept these dogs in this situation is spending the remainder of their life getting cosmically punched in the groin. His story moved us both, and we looked at the picture of him again, wondering why anyone would do something so cruel to something so innocent. We arranged to meet him the next week. I still had my concerns that he wasn’t the best dog for us, but he deserved a chance.

We pulled up to a house in the countryside where Dallas was being fostered. We met the foster mother of Dallas and she took us to the back door of the house, where 6 tiny foster dogs clambered over each other to make our acquaintance. At the back of the pack, timidly hiding behind the others and moving his mouth to pretend he was also barking, was Dallas. We had a cup of tea and we made small talk, fussing the more confident dogs and learning more about Dallas. As soon as I sat down he instantly jumped on my lap and stared into my eyes. Big boogly black spheres staring right into my soul. I looked at my wife but I could read her face straight away, she knew I’d fallen for this little guy instantly. He was coming home with us for sure and we were going to spoil him rotten.

Only one problem remained: the name Dallas. The other dogs that had been rescued from the same place as all had all been named after American cities: Chicago, Vegas, I think one was even called Wichita, not only was the previous owner a colossal prick but they couldn’t pick a good name for shit. We were trying to think of a name that could work when his foster mum briefly mentioned that she had started calling him Douglas over the last few days and he was responding to it. Doug The Chug. That had a damn fine ring to it.

I’m writing this is because today marks 3 years to the day when we got Douglas. He has now been living with us for as long as he was in ‘the bad place’. And for his Gotcha Day (a kind of rescue birthday) we took him to all the places he loves to go around our city. We took him to the pubs he likes to people-watch in, all of the shops in which he usually gets a fuss and a treat from the staff, we visited his favourite shops that sold dog treats, and even the local comic book shop as we know he adores the manager in there. Whilst doing all of these things, I took a moment to think about how much I have changed in the three years since we’ve had Douglas. During lockdown my mental health fluctuated in huge waves, my mood swings violently shifting on an almost hourly basis. I lost passion for any hobbies and creative work I previously loved. I have suffered with anxiety and depression for many years, and I believed I was in recovery, but sometimes recovery means you take a couple of steps back.

Douglas is the best thing I could ever have been prescribed for my mental health. On the days I don’t want to get out of bed he stands on my chest and stares down at me, those huge eyes hypnotising me into taking him for a walk. When I need to nap because everything is a bit much, he nestles into the crook of my arm and naps with me. When I can feel the darkness creeping in or my mind getting carried away with itself again he will sit on my lap and using a paw, swipe at me, his signal that he needs attention, this instantly brings a smile to my face. My most used phrases are now ‘What are you doing?!’ or ‘Where are you off to?’ For someone as socially anxious as me, he is the best icebreaker you could think of. Not only when he’s around and strangers are asking me questions about him, asking if they can give him a stroke or a scrumple, but when I’m at work and need to make small talk, I can talk dogs for hours and hours. I find the old adage of ‘we rescued them but they rescued us’ a tad cliché, but I can say with certainty that having this tiny ball of laziness and chaos in my life has helped immeasurably. I want the best for him, I want to spoil him, make him feel safe and loved, and to make sure he enjoys his life with us. Douglas brings much-needed stability and regularity to my life which suits me just fine. He doesn’t want for much: his meals on time (possibly earlier if he can convince you), to be as close to you at all times (he has some separation anxiety issues but hey who among us doesn’t?) and to sleep as much as he possibly can for which I am eternally envious. Yes this has been over 1500 words on a dog, but he is my best friend and will never know how much he helped me, so I wanted to write it down.