8. A Twist of Fate

The Charmer

Making my early-morning rounds of Battersea’s kennels, I came across a little white scruff of a dog. From the description on his kennel, I could see he was a Jack Russell cross and only four months old. Looking into his sad puppy-dog eyes, I felt a funny warm feeling spread out from my chest, down my arms and into my fingertips. I just knew Charlie was going to be my dog.

I was head of Intake and Assessment at Battersea Dogs & Cats Home. Over the three years I’d spent working there, I’d seen hundreds of animals come and go, and every now and then, one would capture my heart. For months, I’d been thinking of looking for a feisty, hard-working Patterdale Terrier but now, seeing Charlie shaking and looking a bit sorry for himself, I was certain he belonged with me.

I introduced myself. Then he looked up at me with eyes that said, Get me out of here, Liz, and I was smitten.

Charlie had come in days earlier as a stray. He’d been found tied up near London City Airport, with a small empty food bowl beside him. Whoever had abandoned him had felt some responsibility towards him, but how anyone could abandon a puppy like that was beyond me. Luckily for Charlie, a passer-by had found him and kept him for a week before handing him in to us for rehoming.

I wanted to be the one who gave Charlie a new home but there was a problem. He was already earmarked as a possible working dog in our service dogs programme, which finds working homes for some of our animals with the right temperament to cope in such environments. They may become sniffer dogs and search for drugs, people, arms, cigarettes and cash. Charlie, however, seemed suitable for a trainer who worked with dogs in TV and film. It wasn’t ideal, given that I wanted him, but I took it on the chin. It was just one of those things. As he was a puppy, I volunteered to foster him at home until his seven ‘stray days’ were up, and he was officially the Home’s property, legally available for rehoming.

That night, Charlie came home to my flat and was no longer the shaky, nervous little dog I’d seen in the kennel. He was cocky, confident and strutted around like he owned the place.

It was impossible not to fall in love with his brattish personality, even if he was a handful at times. He was a lovable rogue with a bit of attitude, but I liked that. I took Charlie to work with me, and at the station he had a habit of finding food, a discarded chicken wing or some gum, to gobble up. He had the uncanny ability to spot something he considered edible at a hundred paces, and once he had it in his jaws, it was near impossible to get it out, so fast could he swallow it.

I resorted to using a harness that muzzled his mouth, not because he was aggressive but because it gave me a fighting chance to wrangle away from him whatever rubbish he’d found on the floor!

As I got to know Charlie, I wondered why the passer-by who’d found him at the airport had brought him to Battersea instead of keeping him. I reckoned it was because of his naughty streak. I could see that if Charlie didn’t go to a working home, and was rehomed to a family, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility that he would be given back to Battersea because of his mischievous ways. However, if his new owner had experience of terriers, and understood Charlie’s rebellious streak, they might be happy to put up with it. Someone like me, who found it endearing. But anyone who hadn’t had a dog before, and was sucked in by Charlie’s adorable, deceptively innocent face, would be in for a shock. These were the scenarios that came to mind in the time he spent with me, and I wished there was a way I could take him on, but I had to leave that one up to Fate.

During the week that I fostered Charlie, I took him for a walk at lunchtime in Battersea Park. He was full of himself and raced around with delight at being outside.

When his stray days were up, I had some good news. The rehoming team had found the TV trainer another suitable dog and Charlie was up for adoption once more. I went to straight to the office and signed the paperwork to make him officially mine.

I soon discovered that Charlie had a fiery temperament, which he displayed mostly over resources. If he had a tennis ball or another toy, he gave you a look that warned: I dare you to take it off me. He was quite fussy with people too. He rarely liked them but that didn’t stop him playing with their emotions. On our commute to work, he’d wag his tail and stare at other passengers with those appealing eyes. As soon as somebody stooped to say hello, he’d turn up his nose at them and trot away. He loved nothing more than enticing people to pay attention to him, then flat-out rejecting their advances. I spent half my time out with him apologizing and explaining away his behaviour, telling his victims: ‘Sorry, he’s a bit moody sometimes.’ I couldn’t very well say that this apparently adorable little dog was terribly manipulative.

He settled into the office quite well and would find a chair or a corner to snooze in. Between our trips to and from work, and his lunchtime run, he was quite relaxed. That didn’t stop him trampling across my desk, sitting on my keyboard and firing off random gobbledegook emails with his bum. Whenever I got up, I told him: ‘Don’t you steal my chair now, will you, Charlie?’ Not that it did any good. As soon as I was out of sight, I heard the patter of his feet bounding across the office and jumping into my seat.

He must have known when I was coming back, by smell or sound, because as I neared my office, I’d hear the chair spinning as Charlie jumped off and ran back to his own spot. I often asked him, ‘If this is what you’re like with paws, what would you get up to if you had opposable thumbs?’

He didn’t need to answer because I already knew. He loved outsmarting people and dogs and felt no need of friendship beyond mine. I was secretly chuffed I was the only one with that privilege.

He tolerated other dogs and loved nothing more than winding them up. Unluckily for most of the canines with which he came into contact, Charlie was smarter than they were. It became a constant source of amusement to watch him figure out ways to get the better of his peers.

When my flatmate brought a Staffie home, Charlie took it upon himself to show him the ropes. He ran around the coffee-table with a toy, tempting the Staffie into a chase. Round and round they went until the Staffie was hot on Charlie’s heels. Then Charlie slid underneath the table and out the other side, leaving the other dog baffled.

After a while I recognized I could put his wily ways to good use. When new dogs came in to the Home and needed to be tested for temperament – say, former racing dogs like Greyhounds and Lurchers – Charlie was great at playing the stooge. I made sure the two dogs were separated by a wire fence, then set Charlie off on a run to test the other dog’s chase instinct. It helped us figure out if that instinct would pose a problem for their new owner and to advise them properly.

Other times, I would simply take Charlie to the fence with a newbie waiting on the other side, then observe his behaviour. As he was usually cocky, it was a warning sign if he backed away. That told me to keep an eye out: the other dog was exuding a certain something that us humans couldn’t pick up on.

As Charlie settled in at the office and at home, his true colours began to show.

By day, he conserved his energy between walks, but the minute we got home, he’d have a five-minute mad dash about the place, which I called his Whirling Dervish, then slump on the sofa with me for the rest of the evening. By nightfall, though, I was convinced Charlie had plans. He often stalked about the flat at dead of night, and I began to imagine what life for Charlie was like when he was out of earshot. I reckoned he had a secret plot for world domination and had developed it at an early age. When people picked up on how wily he was, I told them, ‘I bet his first word to his mother was an expletive.’ When they got to know him better, they’d understand what I’d meant.

In time, it became clear that Charlie would remain physically small, but also that he had a big brain and an even bigger attitude. Charlie could sniff out tennis balls that were seemingly miles away and would power through hedges to get to them. Nothing was too much of a challenge for him and he tackled everything head-on. But how had he worked his way into my heart and home? He had an uncanny ability to ooze charm and make friends wherever he went. Over time, the regulars on our commute saved Charlie a seat while I was left to stand. As he was usually nonplussed by them, or had once rejected their advances, they would get into a stir if Charlie climbed on to their lap. They’d stare at him in wonder and then, while having a tentative stroke, they’d turn to me and say, ‘Gosh, look at that! He must like me after all.’

Charlie would glance at me with a twinkle in his eye and I’d know what he was really up to. I didn’t have the heart to tell them Charlie was only after one thing: a good nose out of the window. So they continued loving Charlie, and even invited him to summer barbecues and birthday parties. At Christmas, the fan club Charlie had gathered for himself showered him with gift-wrapped treats, stockings and even festive cards! Of course, I didn’t receive a thing. And while Charlie sat there among his friends, surrounded by goodies, I thought, You little user! But all the qualities wrapped up in that mad little dog made me love him dearly.

When he wanted to be charming, nobody was immune to his ways. Lucky for him, Charlie had one of those faces that made people grab hold of him so cuddles were never in short supply.

But I learnt to read Charlie’s moods. If he rolled on to his back, looking submissive and cute as a button, I’d warn people: ‘Don’t get sucked in. He wants to look cute for you but he’s not after a cuddle.’ In the office, when he was on his favourite chair, we all knew better than to try to move him. He often looked as if he was desperate for a tickle but would snap at you before he let you touch him. It was all part and parcel of his game plan.

I reckoned Charlie had stashed a cache of weapons, blueprints and ammunition in some safe place for when he launched his one-dog offensive to take over the world. He was always up to something and had some pretty funny delusions of grandeur. Whenever he caught sight of his reflection, he puffed out his chest. I bet he didn’t see his cute fluffy mug staring back: all Charlie would see was the massive Rottweiler he imagined he was.

It certainly explained the confusion that crossed his face when I scooped him up and carried him somewhere. He’d look down at the air beneath his feet and then to me as if to say: How are you doing this? You must be SO strong!

He was a little rascal, but I loved him and his quirky personality to bits. I was as attached to him as he was to me, and on our days off from work, I treated him to long walks around Crystal Palace and the park near our home in Penge, south-east London.

One Saturday, the sun was shining and it was a perfect day for Charlie to chase squirrels and generally cause a bit of mischief. I grabbed his lead. ‘Park, Charlie. Let’s go.’

When we got there, we set off along one of the winding paths and passed a bin. Something made me grind to a halt – much to Charlie’s dismay. I could have sworn I’d heard a rustling noise. I waited to hear it again, and just when I was about to give up and carry on with our walk, there it was. This time, Charlie heard it too. It was indeed coming from the big bin to the left of us. It wasn’t an open-top bin, but when Charlie circled around it and showed an interest, I tried to peer inside one of the four slot-like gaps on the side. As the rustling continued, I spotted the pointy, gingery ears of what appeared to be a fox. From its size, I reckoned it was a cub.

Just then, a lady with a Labrador stopped next to me. She must have thought I looked like a lunatic, so I said, ‘There’s an animal in this bin.’

When her dog showed an interest too, I knew I hadn’t imagined those ears, and when some passers-by wanted to put some rubbish into the bin, I had to stop them.

‘There’s an animal in there,’ I told them. ‘Please use the next one along.’

By now, a small group had gathered around us and we tried to figure out what to do. As the minutes ticked by, I realized the animal was unlikely to be a fox. Whatever was in there had been forced through the slot by a human. No animal of that size – wild or otherwise – could have jumped up and got into the bin at that odd angle. It’s got to be a puppy in there, I thought.

I put Charlie back on his lead – he had a face like thunder at his walk being interrupted before it had even begun – and told the group to keep watch while I went back down the hill to the ranger’s office.

‘It’s probably a squirrel,’ he said. ‘Maybe you should just leave it alone.’

I said: ‘OK, it’s a squirrel … if you think squirrels have massive orange pointy ears!’

That got his attention.

I walked Charlie back to the bin and the ranger arrived moments later in his Land Rover. The bins in the park had all been emptied the day before and the lids were locked shut. The ranger had what seemed like a million keys on his chain but none of them fitted. In the end, he ripped the lid off with his bare hands.

Finally, I could have a good look at the animal.

There, sitting in the middle of a heap of empty crisps packets, tissues and bottles, was a beautiful red-headed animal. Whether he was a fox cub or a puppy, there was only one way to find out. I reached in and pulled him into my arms. He was beautifully calm and friendly and I felt sure then that he wasn’t a fox cub. By nature, a fox would have been snapping at me and desperate to get away. This little guy was perfectly content to be handled and cuddled.

As the realization spread that he was indeed a puppy, bystanders offered there and then to give him a home. I told them I worked at Battersea and was going to take him there, where I knew he would be in the best possible hands.

As we made our way back to the car, Charlie was fed up. He didn’t like puppies and now his walk was ruined. The three of us went back to my flat and I set the puppy, which I’d nicknamed Pete from Penge, on the carpet. After a sniff around, he tried to play with Charlie. Charlie came to me and nudged me. Make him go away, he pleaded with his eyes.

While Pete had a run around my flat, I arranged for a colleague, who lived downstairs, to lend me a cat cage so I could transport Pete to Battersea safely. It was just the right size for the little fella. He got into it willingly and I placed him in my car. Charlie jumped into the passenger seat, staunchly facing forwards.

He might have lost a walk that afternoon but I wound the window down, and as we drove along with Charlie enjoying the warm breeze, it was clear that my dog was almost ready to forgive me.

I’d called ahead and given the Battersea team a heads-up, and when I arrived, they were discussing Pete’s likely breed. Eventually the vet agreed with me that Pete couldn’t possibly be a fox. He was definitely a puppy, despite his foxy colour and distinctive ears, probably a terrier cross, between eight and ten weeks old. As he was in pretty good shape, he was taken to the puppy area of the kennels to keep him away from infection. Battersea is home to around four hundred dogs at any one time, so the risk of infections, like kennel cough, or conditions such as parvovirus, is taken very seriously. They can be deadly, and puppies are especially vulnerable to picking them up.

Pete was quickly sent out to be fostered, much like my Charlie had been, because of his young age. We didn’t know anything about his background but he could not have got into that bin himself. Somebody had posted him, like a bit of rubbish, through the lid. Had he not been found, he would have died of dehydration and starvation because he couldn’t have made his own way out.

After seven days at Battersea, when nobody had claimed him, we were ready to start the rehoming process. Three people had shown an interest in him, but it was when the team met Gemma that they knew they had the right match …

A New Play Pal

As we unpacked the last box, my husband Dave and I slumped on the sofa. Across the living room in our new house, Ted, our seven-year-old rescue Border Terrier, picked a spot and flopped down too. We had spent a sweltering July day moving from our old place into this, our family home, and we were all exhausted. Now that everything had been unpacked, I realized all the effort had been worthwhile. The rooms upstairs and down were bigger than they had been in our old house, and we had an extra bedroom. We also had five acres of land: perfect for what we had in mind.

Dave and I had always said that when we’d settled into a big family home we’d get another dog to keep Ted company. We’d lived with Dave’s parents for eighteen months, and Ted had loved having a friend in their Labrador, Willow. We wanted him to have a companion. As we were thinking of starting a family soon, we reckoned a puppy would be best. We were happy to have another rescue dog, but without knowing the dog’s full history, I felt more comfortable with a puppy. Taking on a young dog, I’d have more control over how its behaviour developed.

We set about renovating our house, and a year later, it was finally ready for our much-wanted new arrivals. I looked around the local rescue centre but without success. It was disappointing and I felt a bit disheartened. Then I learnt something that gave me an incentive to concentrate on the search: I was pregnant. If we wanted another dog before the baby arrived, we had to get a move on. We’d taken Ted, who was initially a bit aggressive, from Battersea Dogs & Cats Home – we’d been good candidates for the job as I was a veterinary nurse and Dave a vet. Afterwards, we’d stayed in touch with some of the staff at the Home, and while the ones we’d made friends with had gone to new jobs, some had stayed in touch with their former colleagues.

That was how I came to learn of a little puppy called Pete.

I gave Battersea a call and chatted to a rehomer. We talked about what I was after. I didn’t mention Pete straight away and hoped the lady would use her matching skills to tally him with us. If she did, it would be a sign that he was right for us.

She said: ‘Gemma, we have a puppy here at the moment and he’s not doing very well in the kennels. One of our girls has been taking him home after work every night as a foster but he really needs a home.’ He was a Terrier cross named Pete.

I knew it.

Next day, Dave and I took Ted to Battersea. We were shown to a big meeting room upstairs while one of the staff nipped off to fetch Pete. When she returned, her colleague Helen came in too. They set Pete down. The little chap was adorable: he had pointy ears, fluffy red fur and a face you wanted to kiss. He and Ted said a quick and unremarkable hello to each other, and before Dave and I could introduce ourselves to him, Pete was off sniffing all the nooks and crannies of the room.

Helen stepped forward. ‘I’ve been fostering Pete so I thought I’d come and tell you a bit about what I’ve learnt.’

‘That would be great,’ Dave and I said in unison.

Helen smiled. ‘He’s been getting on well with my cat so he shouldn’t have a problem with other animals.’

That was a relief: we already had a cat at home.

‘But you may need to keep an eye on him for a little while as he definitely has that small-dog attitude. Watch out for bad behaviour that you need to nip in the bud.’

As Helen told us what she had learnt about Pete, I felt the muscles in my shoulders relax and took a deep breath. Background information on a stray or a rescue dog was usually thin on the ground, so it was valuable to have Helen on hand to give us a profile of Pete from what she’d observed, and tell of his experience. That expert advice was why we’d come to Battersea. When we’d picked up Ted years earlier, they’d gone the extra mile to give us as much information and guidance on him as possible. Battersea had stood out for us then and I knew now that we’d made the right choice in coming to the Home again.

I listened to all the information Helen gave us, then said: ‘I have one reservation. Pete is a bit on the small side and we have lots of land so I’m worried he might escape through one of the perimeter fences.’ I also told Helen and her colleague that we kept sheep on our land and asked their opinion. Their answers reassured me.

Helen explained: ‘He’s still very young and he’s already the size of a Chihuahua so hopefully he’ll be too big when he’s fully grown to slip through your fence.’

I knew then that I wanted Pete whether he was small or not.

We put Ted and Pete on their leads and took them for a walk. They didn’t pay much attention to each other and walked well together. It wasn’t the sparks and fireworks I was hoping for at the start of their friendship but I told Dave: ‘It’s better than them not getting on, I suppose!’

Dave smiled. ‘Yes, it could be worse. Maybe it’ll just take a bit of time.’

I thought back to our time at Dave’s parents’ home: it had taken Ted a while to get chummy with Willow.

I made a decision. ‘We want to take Pete home.’

Helen and her colleague were pleased, but especially Helen. It was clear that, in the short time she’d fostered Pete, she’d developed a soft spot for him and wholeheartedly wanted him to go to a good home.

I wondered how the Battersea staff did their jobs, day in day out, and managed not to take home every animal that came into the Home.

Two days later, Dave and I returned to collect Pete. At the time, it was being considered whether Charlie, the dog that had found Pete, might appear in Paul O’Grady’s TV show For the Love of Dogs, which was set at the Home, so we were filmed as we signed over the documents and as Pete was handed into our care. We would learn later if Charlie had made the cut.

When we got Pete home, Ted and he ignored each other. Considering the rough start Pete had had – we’d been told he’d been shoved into a bin and left to die – he seemed unfazed by all the change. He spent his waking hours sniffing and investigating everything. It was clear he was very nosy and didn’t leave a cushion unturned, or a corner uninspected. When he was ready for a nap, he jammed himself into Ted’s bed, regardless of what Ted thought, and snoozed.

Dave and I set about picking a name for him. We circled around ‘Herbie’ and various others but nothing seemed quite right. Then I said: ‘Well, he was found in a bin and he’s a bit scruffy-looking. What about Scrappie?’

Dave laughed but, no matter what other names we threw around, Scrappie was the one that stuck.

For the first three or four days, Ted was unsure of Scrappie and didn’t make much effort with him. But one afternoon I was pottering about the house when I heard a crash, a bang and a soft, playful bark I recognized as Ted’s. It was followed by a higher-pitched bark that came in threes.

I went into the kitchen to see Ted had Scrappie’s bed in his jaws and was pulling Scrappie around the floor. For a minute Scrappie, being quite lazy and stubborn when he wanted to be, didn’t show any reaction until, when Ted was least expecting it, he jumped out and tumbled past Ted, whose tail was wagging furiously with excitement. It was the first time I’d seen them playing together and I knew it was the start of something special.

Later, Ted was acting quite submissively to entice Scrappie into a tug-about, and when that didn’t work, he took a more direct approach: he chased Scrappie round the coffee-table. That did work, and it was a joy to watch. It was especially sweet that Ted was having fun, and when Scrappie changed direction and chased Ted – beating him at his own game – it was clear we’d picked the right friend for him. After all, that was the whole point in our seeking out a puppy like Scrappie.

Scrappie had boundless energy and, once he had finished teasing Ted about whether or not he would play, Ted was committed to their games for hours. In time, the dynamics of our duo became more apparent. Ted wasn’t as intelligent as Scrappie but he was super-friendly. While Scrappie would sit by the treats cupboard and bark to let me know he wanted one, Ted was more likely to be found in the neighbours’ garden, eating the bird feed. Little Scrappie liked to have a good chase and a hunt. He was forever running around outside, barking at squirrels, then chasing them through the bushes and along the fence. The good thing about the dogs’ differences was they didn’t get in each other’s way.

Before we knew it, Christmas was fast approaching. We didn’t set up a tree or pull out stockings. Instead, we wrapped our presents, packed our car and, with Scrappie and Ted, set off for Dave’s parents’ home in Devon.

By now, I was seven months pregnant, and as we settled in over the weekend, my thoughts turned to all the changes coming our way. We had a gorgeous new home that Scrappie thoroughly enjoyed. Scrappie had become a great friend to Ted, and Dave and I knew we were expecting a little boy. The thought of the amazing year ahead was overwhelming, but before it had a chance to take hold, a little face appeared beside me. Scrappie had that mischievous look in his eye and was dying for a game. I tickled him and rolled his ball across the room. Back and forth he went, dragging it out from under the table and running back to me. He never tired of fetching it.

On Christmas morning I gave the boys their presents. I called Ted and placed a long, thick wrapped parcel in front of both dogs. Scrappie was straight on one end and Ted on the other. Seconds later, the festive wrapping was in shreds around us as Scrappie and Ted played tug of war with the colourful soft, knotted rope they now had in their jaws. It was good they had something to occupy them because Scrappie had been rummaging about under the Christmas tree ever since we’d arrived for the wrapped-up treats he could smell.

After Christmas dinner, which the boys slept through, we were all ready for a walk. It was a Christmas tradition for our family to head to the beach nearby with Ted and Willow. Scrappie was thrilled to see so many other dogs about and wanted to play with them all. But the minute his paws touched the cold water, he yelped and retreated at lightning speed. Unlike Ted, he hated it. I watched as Scrappie raced from dog to dog, convinced they all wanted to play, and when he barked, Ted barked too. Scrappie knew just how to lead Ted on, and after a while, I asked Dave to bring them in so we could go back to the house.

After the Christmas festivities, we returned home to Hampshire and, during the day, the boys played on our land. Every morning, they joined me to check on the sheep – twenty-five ewes and five lambs – and, to my delight, Scrappie followed Ted’s example and didn’t cause any trouble. They made me squirm when they ate sheep poo, but I was happy we’d been able to give Scrappie such a lovely, carefree lifestyle.

At the right time, I went into labour and soon returned home with our son, Oliver. When we got back from the hospital, Dave and I placed Oliver, still in his car seat, on the living-room rug. We didn’t want to make a fuss but Ted and Scrappie needed to understand there was a new person in the house. They both rushed over, their tails wagging, and sniffed Oliver and his seat. When they realized he was a living, breathing thing, they were curious, but it wasn’t long before they lost interest. We never left Oliver on his own with the dogs, and whenever they were near him, we were within grabbing distance. At night, we locked them into the kitchen so we knew they wouldn’t venture upstairs to Oliver’s room if he was crying.

With good reason: whenever Oliver cried, Ted was beside himself. He’d always been the type to rush to the TV if he heard a cry and now it was happening in his house.

He would rush to Oliver and then to me, begging me to follow him. When I reached Oliver, Ted got under my feet but I didn’t tell him off. He was only worried and, in time, he calmed down. It was a matter of weeks before Ted figured out, as always long after Scrappie, that Oliver was not only here to stay, but his cries would be the recurring soundtrack in our home. He was soon ignoring them.

Now whenever Oliver is in my arms or on my lap, Ted will rest his head nearby and sniff Oliver’s foot. Scrappie ignores him completely. He doesn’t ignore Ted, though. I still find the pair of them playing in the kitchen and, when they think nobody is watching, snuggling up together in the living room. Scrappie is everything we hoped he would be for Ted, and now that Dave and I are busy with Oliver, he’s a godsend.

I’m so glad we went back to Battersea and were matched up so perfectly. Seeing Helen that day and learning about her experience with Scrappie had been the deciding factor. I’m grateful to her and Battersea for helping our family grow in such a perfect way. In return, it is our pleasure to give Scrappie the life he deserves, after his shocking start, in a warm and loving home.