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As Susy Smith welcomes the patter of tiny paws into her home, she is reminded of the delights – and demands – of a needy newborn

Susy Smith welcomes the patter of tiny paws into her home

We have a puppy! This time last year, I told you we were thinking of getting a dog, but it was definitely not a done deal. For the next six months, we pondered and prevaricated. We dithered and deliberated. We worried at the whole subject like, well, a dog with a bone. There was a nagging feeling at the back of my mind that this might not be a good idea. I couldn’t quite remember why: our previous dog died four years ago, aged 12, so my puppy-training memories were vague. All I could articulate was the overwhelming responsibility involved.

Everyone says it. “They’re a tie,” they say ruefully, as you explain you can’t just drop everything to join them for a spontaneous weekend away. They’re expensive. There are the routine bills for grooming, worming and vaccinations. And that’s before they develop chronic arthritis or a sensitive stomach that requires a special diet. They’re destructive. One leg of my antique, farmhouse kitchen table is distinctly thinner than the others with a chew-marked, distressed finish dating back 30 years. They require space in a sensible car: my adored powder-blue Fiat 500 convertible just won’t cut the mustard.

Like a game of ping-pong, my mind countered all these arguments. In the current environment, we’re not likely to be going anywhere, anytime soon. To hell with the expense, we aren’t spending money on much else. The house is looking decidedly shabby (not in a chic way) with four of us working at home, so it probably needs a refurb. And maybe it is finally time for me to swap the Fiat for a more practical car anyway (sob). Back and forth, back and forth these arguments would go.

Then, suddenly, at the end of the summer, I decided the time was right. My most workintensive period in the garden was over for another year; there are four of us willing to lend a hand; and, frankly, we could all do with a bit of cheering up. Plus, I think I just got tired of arguing with myself.

Next thing we knew, we were packed into the Fiat heading to Kent to pick up an eight-week-old cocker spaniel. We’d already named him Finlay, after falling in love with him a month earlier on our first visit to the breeder. There was a scary moment after we collected him when we thought we might have been given the wrong puppy. “I’m sure the one we chose was more chilled out than this,” said my daughter. Hmm… perhaps that was him on a good day. So now, our lives have become a round of toilet trips to the garden (or cleaning up after the trips that didn’t happen). There’s a rota on the kitchen table: we are in and out of the back door so much I fear it will fall off its hinges. A baby gate divides the kitchen from the rest of the house and we have to vault it endless times a day (not easy with my dodgy hip). And our sleep patterns are erratic to say the least.

It’s like having a baby and a toddler rolled into one. Like a new mother, I sometimes find I’m still in my dressing gown at lunchtime. I ride buses and trains going anywhere because he seems to like the motion. And when we are at home, and he suddenly drops off to sleep, I go into overdrive thinking about what I can get done before he wakes up again. Like anxious first-time parents, we find it impossible to interpret exactly what he wants: does the whining at the back door mean “I need a wee”, “I’m bored” or “Oh, look, a leaf – let me out there to chase it!” But, unlike a baby, he is, of course, fully mobile, with teeth that could demolish an electric cable in minutes, or less, judging by the short work he’s made of one of the kitchen unit doors. In the garden, he quickly discovered the white plastic markers I put in where I have planted bulbs and found it great fun to whip them out with his teeth as he went by. I now carry replacements but I’m not entirely sure what will pop up where in spring.

He is the central topic of conversation, but a lot of the time it’s as if our basic vocabulary has shrunk to single words: “Sit”, “Wait”, “Down”. But most of all “No!” echoes from room to room. My neighbour, who didn’t realise the puppy had arrived, heard me over the wall saying firmly, “Leave it, leave it,” and assumed I was being rather irritable with my husband.

All I can say is, thank heavens for Classic FM. It has become our round-the clock, go-to source of calm. I don’t know about Finlay, but it’s helping to keep me from climbing the walls and chewing the furniture.

When we have one of our regular calls with our dog trainer Tracy, she continually reminds me, in her broad Lancashire accent, “It’s life changing, Susy, life changing.” Ah yes, I remember now.

NEXT MONTH Susy’s plans for spring cleaning go badly awry. Meanwhile, you can follow her on Instagram @susysmithmacleod.