Your first dog is much like your first love. Perhaps they are even one and the same. Either way, you can be sure that whatever twists and turns your relationship takes, it will never be forgotten, and no other bond will be quite as strong.
I met my first dog when I was ten years old. She was the result of a lifelong wager between myself and my parents, which, when it was made, was most probably nothing more than a throwaway, pacifying comment made out of desperation to shut me up after a solid day’s worth of ‘can we get a dog?’ ‘Why can’t we get a dog?’ ‘Please can we get a dog??’ I was only four at the time, and so my parents had probably not known me long enough to have fully discovered my ability to unwaveringly recall trivial statements possibly beneficial to me in the future.
Anyway, the wager was that we absolutely, unequivocally and indisputably would get a dog, as soon as we had moved out of our cramped little semi-detatched house, which did not so much feature a garden as a single paving slab and one pot-plant, to a much more canine-friendly space. Suffice to say, a good five years later, the second I got wind of any plans to relocate to a larger house I was hotfooting it down to the local library and checking out ‘The Big Book of Dog Breeds’ before anyone could stop me, sit me down, and explain to me about empty promises.
In a turn of events for which they only had themselves to blame, my parents soon found that they were getting a dog. After much deliberation, it was decided that our breed of choice would be an Airedale Terrier. I was told this was because my Grandad used to own a couple when he was growing up and so they held a special place in my family history. However, even as a young child I cynically suspected the main reason was that it would be much harder to track down a local breeder of Airedale puppies as opposed to your average retriever or labrador. A pathetic attempt to curtail the dog-purchase really, especially in the face of my stubborn determination. It was only a matter of weeks later that we found ourselves faced with two equally adorable balls of Airedale Terrier fluff, having to make the heart wrenching choice as to which would become our beloved family pet, and which we would never see again. After being forcibly told that we COULD NOT take both of them home, the problem was solved as soon as I scooped up one of the puppies for a decision-making cuddle, and she, let’s just say, marked me as her territory. I remember two things from that day: 1. I had a dog at last and 2. I was freezing for the rest of the day, as my puppy wee-soaked cardigan was confined instantly to the boot of the car and I was forced to go back to school for the afternoon in just a summer dress.
And so began my life with dog. With this new beginning came years of discovering exactly what it means to be a dog owner, and the many rites of passage and learning curves that come with such a commitment:
The Naming
Naming a dog is hard. Unlike naming a child, dog names can be selected not just from the traditional ‘human names’ pool e.g. Oscar, Ben, Phoebe etc, but pretty much any proper noun can be considered as an option, for example, I have encountered dogs named Truffle, Bandit, Tweed and Jumble. The choices are endless, but however sacred and holy a dog-naming decision may seem, when it comes to actually having to choose one, there really is only one make-or-break question to ask yourself that will produce definitive results: Could I shout this name across a public space, potentially in loud, commanding, authoritative tones without wincing with shame? If no, choose again. If yes, your dog is named.
For some wholly unjust reason, I was not allowed to name our new dog. This could possibly have been due to my list of suggestions, most of which were inspired by various presenters of Top of the Pops at the time. To avoid having to scream “JOSIE D’ARBY!! PUT THAT DEAD BIRD DOWN NOW!!” across a park, my mum stepped in, and decided that our little puppy would forever be known as ‘Pickle’. Whether or not I was happy with this decision, I cannot recall, but I have a strong suspicion that I sensed it was time to shut up and count my blessings at that stage.
The Walking
Due to the few bargaining privileges that are afforded to parents who have given into the demands of their ten year old daughter, mine managed to use guilt and blackmail to ensure that I was in charge of Pickle’s morning walk every day before school. For the first few weeks of her life, I remember this involving me having to drag her for about 50m, before she simply refused to continue and I was forced to carry her the rest of the way around the short block outside our house. In hindsight, I have no idea why I continued to walk the remaining distance around the block holding my lazy puppy, and didn’t just turn back home, but perhaps I felt Pickle needed to see what was expected of her eventually.
As the years wore on, I remained Pickle’s main walker throughout my school years, only having to hand over the lead when I left to go travelling at the age of 19. As much as I would whinge incessantly about having to leave the comfort of the sofa on a saturday morning to drag Pickle around the park in unceasing drizzle, it was only when I returned from my trip that I realised how much I had missed our leisurely strolls. On a sunny day, with a fully charged iPod and Pickle behaving appropriately, such walks were positively enjoyable, not to mention excellent exercise solutions. In later years, when Pickle grew too old to be dragged for long distances, I tried to replace the exercise benefits of our daily walks with solo morning runs. Sadly, because I am as unfit as Rick Waller on a treadmill, and because I purchased the cheapest pair of trainers amazon had to offer, this only resulted in me giving myself ‘tendonitus’, which sounds like something you make up to get a day off school when you’re 7, but is in fact a real thing. This made me miss leisurely jogs across the playing field with Pickle even more.
The Cleaning Up
If there’s one thing you can be sure of when you become a dog-owner, its that from that moment on you will be spending a great deal of your time clearing up shit. From the newspaper-floored hell of puppy house-training, to the incontinence of canine old-age, and all the pooper-scooper moments in between, there is no way you can avoid it. Frankie Boyle once commented that there is nothing sadder than the sight of someone with a dog, clearing up its shit in the streets, apart from someone without a dog, clearing up dog shit in the streets. So, according to this, I was partaking regularly in the second saddest ritual available. And Pickle, God bless her, always made sure I had the largest audience possible when doing so, although, thankfully, the audiences have never included judgemental old Frankie Boyle.
I think the apex of this ritual occurred during one of my first dates with my boyfriend, taking Pickle for a romantic stroll around the local forest. After relieving herself in the usual attention-seeking fashion, Pickle was left shamed as she turned around, a single but huge blade of grass still hanging from her rear end, which I then shamefully had to remove using two twigs and a deft, pincer movement.
The Entertainment
Dogs are hilarious, fact. Their dopey demeanour and trusting faces have recently made them excellent stars of youtube videos and instagram photos, and suffice to say, we wasted no time using Pickle in such a way. Throughout her life she modelled countless hats, scarves, sunglasses and headphones in order to create amusing, novelty images and video clips, which were religiously uploaded to Facebook for the world to see, helped by Pickle’s excellent comic timing and distinct knack for walking into things and tripping over her own feet.
The Love
I lost my first ever dog six days ago. She had reached a ripe age and died in her bed at home, where she had spent most of her life. As much as I can take comfort from this, and although towards the end of her life Pickle was not the cheeky, hilarious hound of her younger years, I can’t help but feel a hole in my heart now she’s gone.
A dog provides a kind of love very difficult to put into words, mainly because it is a rare relationship that involves no words. Dogs make you feel loved in many, silent ways. I felt it every time Pickle lay her head on my knee, followed me around the house or licked my hand as I stroked her, but above all, I felt it simply by knowing she was there. Every time I returned home, whether from the other side of the world, or just the newsagents, she was waiting, and it is this constant, unwavering presence that forms the irreplaceable bond between owner and dog.
Pickle was affectionate, intuitive, endearing, never failed to make me laugh and, worryingly, according to my boyfriend she was ‘very good at keeping secrets’. She was my first ever dog, the answer to all my four-year old wishes, and as cheesy as it may sound, I’ll never forget her, and she will never be replaced.