‘She came back with a Jack Russell – with complicated DNA – and we were instantly besotted’

FOXY came to us traumatised. Her tail had been docked, and she carried her left hind leg when she ran around the garden, but she had big brown eyes that looked at you with such longing and intensity, she was irresistible.

There was an ache in those eyes, a memory of trauma inflicted on her by the cruel people from whom she had forcibly been removed. I wasn’t convinced we were ready for another dog, but when I saw her, my concerns melted away. We didn’t need her, but she needed us. She needed love, she needed security, she needed a home where she could curl up on a couch without being kicked, and food served up to her instead of having to forage for scraps.

Part of my reluctance was that I couldn’t shake the sadness I endured when the two previous dogs, West Highland white terriers, died a fortnight to the day apart, late in 2006.

Tears

Zippy, the daughter, went first, at almost 15, completely unexpectedly during overnight observation at the vet’s for what we though was mild colitis. Sisley, the mother, who was blind and relied on her to be guided around, just gave up the ghost without her crutch to rely on.

I was woken by a bark that morning at 7am; there was a tone to it I never had heard before, and I guessed something was wrong. I dashed downstairs and saw her lying on the kitchen floor, her body rising and falling quickly and sharply. I held her and roared to my wife to come quickly.

We knelt together on the tiles, tears streaming down our faces as Sisley died, being hugged by both of us as we kept saying ‘you’re a great dog, you’re a great dog, and we love you’. She had been with us for almost 17 years.

Now if you’ve never had a dog, you’re going to laugh out loud at the next bit (you might even be laughing already, and that’s fine), but I truly believe she summoned us to say goodbye. She was looking at both of us when the life left her body, and I consider it her final gift.

The next couple of years eased the sorrow, and I would be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy not having the responsibility of tending to the needs of a totally dependent creature.

Sisley had been with us since I gave her to my then girlfriend as a present. She was there when we moved into our first house, and there to bark us off on our honeymoon. She was my salvation when I spent six weeks at home doing nothing after the Irish Press closed and left me jobless, and there to keep my wife company when I went on a journalism fellowship to South Africa for three months in 1999.

Now, though, suddenly carefree, I saw the attraction of the empty nest, and enjoyed not having to find willing victims to mind house and dogs when we went on holiday, or a kennels we could trust when no one else was around.

Over time, though, we both got broody and eventually decided to go again. Our friend Linda Martin, the singer who also has been an astonishing advocate for animal welfare, put us in touch with a rescue agency. Presumably having had long experience of knowing some poor dogs go from the frying pan into the fire, a lovely woman called around by appointment, checked out the house and interviewed us to ensure we would be good humans for the dog she had in mind.

Besotted

And, as I said, when she came back a few days later with what discernibly was a Jack Russell terrier, though with a slightly more complicated DNA, we instantly were besotted. Indeed, because of her mixed breed, she immediately reminded me of nothing more than a fox, and that’s how she got her name.

In the years since, a lot has changed. We separated and divorced, and Foxy stayed with my ex. They go to the office together every day and Foxy sits at her feet on a beanbag, and looks up adoringly. It’s necessary, because her early life clearly stayed with her. It has eased over the years but, left alone, she still has separation issues.

When she comes to stay with me, she literally follows me everywhere. Every time I think she’s asleep and I lift her off the couch to work, or cook, or just grab a beer from the fridge, she’s immediately roused and at my heel. If I open the door to let her into the garden, she barks like crazy and runs around every corner. If I go out first and invite her to follow, she’s as quiet as a mouse.

It took me a long time to figure it out, but she’s actually protecting me. When she goes out first, it is to chase away anyone or anything that might harm me. If she can see I’m fine, she doesn’t bother.

Dogs are complex. We’re told they don’t have memories or emotions, but anyone who ever has had a dog knows deep down that they do, or at least something approximating to them. Certainly every time we came home from a fortnight’s holiday, Sisley would look at us with contempt, shrug and walk away. It would take days to make up for what she clearly saw as a snub.

Ashes

Foxy is different. She’s wary of strangers, and I think that too is a consequence of her early life, because she definitely remembers people she knows and rushes to greet them.

Why am I telling you all this? Because it upset me yesterday to read that Dogs Trust Ireland received 186 calls since Christmas from people wanting to surrender dogs bought as presents. The story of one in particular – a dog called PJ who, just like Foxy, is a Jack Russell cross and was abandoned in the car park – saddened me to my core.

These are people who maybe couldn’t see the rewards that would come after the peeing and chewing stages ended. Dogs need patience as much as they need love. They need to be reminded who is boss but with reassurance, not violence.

I’d love another, but I travel a lot and it wouldn’t be fair to the dog.

I’m also aware that if I rescued one tomorrow and he or she lived to the same age as Sisley, I would be a guardian until I was 71. That’s a big commitment I feel I can’t make.

Someone can, though, and if that person is you, please think about giving a home to one of those 186 dogs – dogs just like Foxy and PJ who will bring joy to your lives.

You never forget them, you know. When we separated, we each took one small box. Mine is on a shelf here beside me, and it contains Zippy’s ashes. She was as daft as a brush and even when I wanted to scold her, she made me laugh. She, and Sisley and Foxy, enriched and enrich me.

Luckily, to satiate my longing, I’m on custody duty next weekend. I might not be a McDonald’s dad, but I love being a pedigree chum, even to a terminally cute and emotionally needy Jack Russell cross, my three-and-a-half-legged friend.