How, after four years of bitter grief, I have at long last learned to laugh again... and it’s all thanks to Dudley!

HE thinks that birds – and the bigger the better – are there purely for his entertainment and exercise; he loves Lyric FM when he’s in the car, but isn’t so gone on the Six Nations rugby commentary; he thinks that the shower going full blast in my en suite is the funniest thing he has ever seen; he adores the feel of the sand under his feet on the beach, but can’t quite get his head around all that wet stuff called the sea (he’s a native of rural Co. Meath), so he makes a run for it every time the waves get too close for comfort.

He also likes nothing better than a bit of a snooze under the table inside Café Gourmet in Greystones, and he is utterly incapable of understanding, at any time of the day, when I’m around, why he simply can’t go everywhere – and I mean everywhere – with me. (See shower reference above.)

Ten days ago Dudley thundered into my life and changed it for the better. He’s a ten-month-old wirehaired dachshund, very smart, and completely adorable. With apologies to American writer John Reed and his ‘take’ on the Russian revolution of 1917, talk about the Ten Days That Shook The World! Dudley has certainly shaken mine.

Beloved

Regular readers will know that I have been considering getting a dog for some time now – about 18 months.

I’ve had many dogs in my life, most notably Oscar and Finn who have featured here in the past – the Irish wheaten terrier brothers who were so central to the lives of myself and my late husband for so many years.

Oscar died in 2011 when he was 12 while Finn made it to December 2014, just one month short of his 16th birthday. We were grief-stricken at the loss of our adored dogs, but then, just six months after Finn died, grief took on a whole other meaning for me when I lost my beloved husband.

It’s been a long, hard journey ever since, as I have attempted to drag myself, day in and day out, up to the surface and out of that black hole where grief has continued to hold me prisoner.

Oh, I have done my job to the best of my ability (with a lot of support from my colleagues), I have looked after my elderly mother’s interests, I have had occasional nights out with close friends, and I have travelled, mostly alone but sometimes in the company of my adult son or my sister, to different parts of the world. I have tried, in other words, to get on with the kind of life that is left to me after such an overwhelming loss.

But have I been happy? Have I known moments of unbridled joy? Have I actually laughed out loud, spontaneously? Have I woken up even one morning in the last three years and eight months without my husband being the first thought in my head, without, in fact, speaking aloud to him before I even throw back the covers, plant my feet on the floor, and face into yet another day without him?

The answer to all those questions is no. Not until now.

A couple of nights ago, in the quiet of my apartment, I suddenly heard a noise. What was it, I wondered for a moment. And then I realised that it was me – that I had laughed, really laughed, out loud. Why? Because Dudley had suddenly spotted his favourite soft toy – an old black-and-white panda – on the other side of the room and had launched himself off the sofa with such joy and vigour that when he landed on the rug, it took off like a magic carpet, flying across the wooden floor with Dudley onboard. And so comical was it that it made me laugh in a way that I haven’t laughed in a very long time.

Energy

Dogs are great medicine. And Dudley is all I hoped that he would be. He’s a big commitment, of course, and that’s precisely why I didn’t make any rash decisions over the past 18 months. I needed the timing to be right and I needed the dog to be right.

Hopefully I have now managed to tick both of those boxes. A very young puppy, for instance, would have been a mistake because, with work commitments, I simply don’t have the time to invest in house training and all that that involves. Dudley is ten months old and fully trained. He comes to me, therefore, with all the fun and energy attributes of a very young dog, but without the practical problems.

And I have a day-care arrangement in place for him so that he never has to be left alone all day at home.

That’s important for Dudley, and it’s also important for my neighbours, for who wants to have to listen to a lonely dog whining or barking all day?

Putting everything in place for his arrival took time and planning. But if a dog is important enough to you, it can be done.

Which is what makes it so depressing to hear, just this week, that the Dogs Trust charity was asked to re-home almost 400 dogs in the four weeks immediately after Christmas.

Loyalty

What kind of planning was put into giving those poor dogs a home? None at all, it seems.

Dudley has already given me a bit of my mojo back. And just to see his happy face and his waggling tail first thing every morning when I open the door to where he sleeps in the living room has done me more good than any of the grief counselling that I’ve had over the past few years. He needs me and I need him. We are bound together. It’s as simple as that.

Dogs teach you so much about life: to appreciate the simple things, to love with all your heart, to always be yourself, to live in the moment. And their gift for loyalty is simply immeasurable. And not just for their human owners.

When Oscar was just a few weeks from death back in 2011, his brother Finn became his carer. So we would come upon him, in the kitchen, perhaps, or out in the garden, standing tight up against his frail brother, leaning into him, offering him comfort.

And they would stand there together for ages, the two of them, joined forever in blood and in love, with Finn gently licking Oscar’s ears, or snuffling his fur, as if to reinforce to his dying brother that he was there, that he wouldn’t leave him, that he would stand by him to the end. As he did.

And now it’s just me and Dudley. And as I step tentatively out of the shadows to embrace this more joyful life that is now beckoning me, I can only give thanks for the affectionate and ebullient little dog who has come into my life and is doing his very best to make me whole again.

And I can’t help but reflect on how extraordinary it is that this small, hairy dachshund has so quickly helped to finally ease my grief, and let me laugh again.